Benevolence and Belligerence
by wolfluvermh
Summary: It seems that fate has united Penryn and Raffe for yet another battle. Raffe will do anything to claim his wings as his own again, discarding Beliel's, and Penryn wants nothing more than Paige happy. But mystery has always been present to those who are willing to follow its fragile beckons, and, before long, secrets long hidden are revealed on the trail of the wanderer.
1. Prologue

**This is a weird beginning, yes, but if you can make it through the first chapter, I promise you, it'll get better; I'm no newb at writing.**

**There'll be Raffryn and Raffryn fluff, but not without a plot line! If you like Raffryn fluff, check out one of my other one-shots.**

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**~Benevolence and Belligerence~**

**Prologue**

The massive Nephilim nimbly dances at the edges of the rooftops, just outside reach of Raphael's sword.

Its hooked claws grapple over the hay roof, fanged mouth repeatedly bared in a malicious snarl. Its eyes glow in the vivid evening sun. Long, dragonlike tail curling behind it like the slender tongue of a whip, the Nephilim bristles. How this _creature_, this demonic beast, had been spawned from Raphael's own warriors, he does not know. But he does know that the Nephilim must be slain before the sun sets, or else there will be no killing the beast in the darkness of the night.

In an act of desperation, Raphael snatches up a nearby torch from the hook on the wall. The splintered wood is brutal to his hand as he lifts the torch up to the hay thatching, almost as if it despises the concept of spreading onto the house. The flames are at first hesitant, as if they cannot fully comprehend their duty. But once they have a taste of their prey, they consume it quickly. The roof erupts into an inferno.

The Nephilim screeches first in confusion. He backs up nervously, balancing on the spine of the house, away from the strange fire, bewilderment gleaming in its wide eyes. The flames dance forward, and soon, he wails in pain instead of puzzlement. The Nephilim hisses at the fire, trying to curl smaller and smaller as the roof is claimed by the blaze.

The heat kisses Raphael's skin, the light burns his sensitive eyes. Raphael stumbles away from the roof as it is devoured by flames, throwing his arm before his face to shield him from the embers taking flight.

The stalks of hay groan and collapse around the weight of the Nephilim, allowing a thousand fire fairies to be swept into the dark night. The Nephilim releases a pitiful wail as it plummets through the burning ceiling, a wail that is soon belittled by the screams of humans as they desert the cottage neighboring the burning building.

Fire had leapt from one roof to the other, and it quickly devours the second home as easily as it had the first. Raphael pays the monkeys no heed, discarding his torch by tossing it over a shoulder.

With a wheezing breath that sounds above the crackling of the fire, a creature moves from within the remains of the burnt house, tossing wreckage from its path to freedom.

The Nephilim bats beams of wood from its path as it emerges from the primitive structure, flanks that were once dark black and covered in thick, tough skin now streaming with black blood and scaly with awful burns. Upon seeing Raphael, the beast's eyes widen with fear, singed hairs standing on end. It rears onto its hind legs as a last mean of defense, cordlike tongue lashing out like a whip to grasp Raphael's sword.

Raphael does not give it the time to encroach upon the sword. He swings without hesitation, throttling power into the blow. The Nephilim's screech is gurgled, hindered by its own blood. Its jaws snap together, a movement that only traps more of the thick liquid in the Nephilim's mouth. A stray tongue winds over the ground like a beheaded snake.

The Nephilim, caught in a rearing position, must eventually answer to gravity's call. When it does come crashing back down the burning timber, Raphael positions his sword and holds steady.

The sword pierces the Nephilim's hide. It shrieks in pain, going limp over the embers. Ashes spiral around the Nephilim's dying form, drifting up with the rising air.

Raphael stumbles away from the heat of the rapidly burning town. He watches grimly as the fire leaps from rooftop to rooftop, sending citizens fleeing. Panic ensues. A building collapses, ensnaring an elderly woman and her daughter inside. Hoarse and shrill screams greet one another in the darkness of the night.

A silhouette forms against the yellows and oranges of the village claimed by fire, a small one, and the only one that does not seem to flee from the tongues of flame. Sobbing with the strength of unmarred innocence, a tiny boy with dark brown hair approaches the remains of the still Nephilim. Bronze eyes reflect the firelight. His cheeks are streaked with glistening tears. A high-pitched cry of mourning escapes his lips. But as soon as the boy sees Raphael, barring the path to the smoldering Nephilim, he pales, and runs through the village.

Raphael snarls, the sound ripping through his chest. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. The boy disappears into shadows, but his tracks can be easily traced; a boy, no matter the species, is still a child. Baring his wings to the sky, Raphael kicks off the burning timber in a swirling storm of ash. Wings fanning the sky, Raphael hovers over the burning town. Embers fly now with the grace of chaotic fairies. Smoke clogs the sky, staining his white feathers grey.

Nothing unnatural moves in the town being devoured by orange flames; only monkeys flee the wreckage, tripping over their own feet in their demented hurry. Raphael growls in disappointment, hovering over burning chapel, disregarding the screams directed towards him. However, on the ridge of the neighboring mountain, a shadow quivers over the stones of the caves. It only quivers marginally, and only for mere seconds, but a shadow is all Raphael needs. Grim determination and bitter hatred fill his heart; these creatures are the beings that had thrust his Watchers into the Pit with not a tear wasted.

Raphael sails over the ridge, chasing after the last ribbon of sunlight cresting over the mountains' horizon. He lands before the open mouth of the cave with but a whisper of feathers, hands braced on his sword. His wings furl by his sides, readying him for the swift action of taking to flight immediately in case of attack from the desolate cave. Feet steady on the stone, Raffe takes a single step forward.

And the little boy steps from the shadows of the cave, his bronze eyes wide.

No higher than Raphael's knee, the boy lacks the build or height of a fearsome imp; no, the boy does not look any older than four. His tousled brown hair is tossed to one side. A brown cloak that seems to have once belonged to a full-size adult pools around his legs. The boy cranes his head up to look at Raphael. There is fear in his noble expression, _terror_, but there is also bravery, and an overwhelming sadness harbored in the boy's gaze.

He blinks twice. "Please, Mister Raphael, remember me, sir," the boy whispers. And then he bursts forward.

Raphael had expected the boy to sharply run to either the right or the left and had pivoted his body accordingly. When the small child does neither, instead bowling beneath his splayed legs and sprinting off, he is caught off balance, a balance that is not easily regained as more and more Nephilim pour from the cave.

There must be nearly twenty of them all. None are quite as large as the first Nephilim Raphael had left to die in the embers of the burning town, but none quite have the petite size of the Nephilim that had darted between Raphael's legs. That particular Nephilim morphs as it runs into the distance, headed for the distant trees, two legs becoming four as they drum against the soil. It leads the brigade, several paces ahead of the second in the train.

The last Nephilim to dash from the safety of the cave does not find the easy exit of its precessors. Raphael's blade sings in his hand, and the beast yelps in accordance with the sword's melody. Dragging the blade from its spot buried in the monster's flesh, Raphael chases after the Nephilim.

Blood roaring in his veins, Raphael inspects each and every Nephilim. Though there are near twenty total, not all twenty are running. One takes to the sky, unfurling a pair of greasy wings. Some of the leaner ones have one or two pups on their backs. One demonic baby shrieks from the shoulders of a smaller beast. A larger one carries a human female on its back.

If timed correctly, Raphael should be able to take two out with one blow if he keeps times his strikes right. First, though, Raphael leaps into the air and brutally stabs the winged Nephilim at the base of its neck. It shrieks and goes limp, neck bones loose. The death of the Nephilim sends a wave of triumph through his veins. The short shot of ecstasy is his sword's way of informing him that they'd slain something, and, after all this time, Raphael is accustomed to the quick jump of excitement in his veins. Tearing the blade from the twitching body, Raphael plods onward.

Nephilim after Nephilim falls, each spurt of black blood providing a new thrill for the game at hand. Some go down gracefully, bodies still mostly intact. However, some tumble in a wave of limbs and snarls. One Nephilim dashes onwards no matter the pain inflicted, forcing Raphael to stab it many more times than he deems necessary. When the beast does fall, it does so of blood loss. The sun creeps lower and lower in the sky, a small sliver all that remains. Soon, only two Nephilim remain, dashing ahead of Raphael with their scaly tails tucked. But the forest is near, as is the protective cover of night.

The wind is like an icy hand raking through his hair, through his feathers. His heart throbs excitedly in his veins, bloodlust narrowing his thought process. Exhilaration on high, Raphael takes revenge on the creatures that'd ripped the Watchers from their glory.

Raphael's lungs heave as he levels out with the Nephilim falling behind, sword light in his hands. The Nephilim's ears press against its skull. A tingle of satisfaction accompanies the yelp of pain and buckling of the Nephilim's knees. Its eyes roll back into its head, and it goes still.

Another snarl, a grisly growl of anger, attracts his attention. Raphael pauses, looming over the body of the dead Nephilim, gaze drawn to the source of the sound. The last Nephilim buries its claws in the ground, turning on a dime. It bares its teeth at Raphael. Rage glints in its bronze eyes. The tiny thing snarls, muscles tensing, and –

Raphael whacks its head mercilessly with the broad of his blade. The Nephilim's eyes roll close, and it falls lifelessly to the ground. The very last drop of orange sun squeezes over the horizon, allowing only a small flicker of light to reflect off the oozing liquid staining the Nephilim's temple.

Adrenaline high fading rapidly, Raphael studies the carnage he'd created: the trail of dead demon bodies, slowly morphing back into those of children, the plumes of smoke and tongues of fire whipping at the sky, the rivers of inky black blood tracing down the mountainside, and the wails of the humans watching their homes burn to the ground.

Leaving the tiny Nephilim's body in the dark of the night, Raphael takes to the sky.

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**It becomes important to the storyline eventually. Basically, it's my interpretation upon how Raffe took out a bunch of the Nephilim. **

**Bear with me. Please. **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Paige doesn't seem to want to leave Beliel's husk of a body, for reasons beyond my comprehension.

Even now, beneath the heat of the noonday sky, she stands sentry over the carcass. His leathery skin now reeks sourly, and what little fluid had remained in the hollow hide has seeped away into the forest soil. The glassy eyes now rot beneath the sunlight, the stench undoubtedly attracting undesired predators to our makeshift camp.

Last night had been unrestful. Raffe had slept with his snowy wings lain beside him, slumbering a fair distance from Paige and I. However, I'd slumbered with my little sister nestled in the crook of my body, conserving heat against the bitter cold of the night. Our hilltop camp had even allowed for a small fire, summoned from the twigs and leaves littering the woods by Raffe. Even the fire couldn't chase off Paige's unease, however, and nor could it mine.

I watch Paige as she plucks at a few weeds from the ground at her feet, slender fingers sifting through the grass absentmindedly. The vivid purples and crimsons of her stitches are forever a reminder of how the angels had broken my little girl my little girl. At least they hadn't ripped th doelike lashes from her eyelids, or ripped her eyes out, for the matter.

The idea of having to live with her like this is slightly repulsing, though guilt heavies my heart to even think of such matters. I no longer fear my baby girl, no longer shy from her touch or slide my gaze away from hers, but I long for the child in the wheelchair I knew so well before. Now, everything will be different, strange, _alien_. My mind baulks at the possibility of her becoming hungry again; hopefully, Paige's stomach will remain satisfied for a while.

The emeralds and jades of the forests that Paige's scorpion army had delivered us to are slowly starting to ebb into golds and oranges. A masterpiece has been painted over the canopies of the forest, as if God had taken a paintbrush to the green and began highlighting all the crevices of the leaves. The blanket of foliage shed last autumn is soon to be refreshed by this new battalion, spiraling gracefully from the limbs of the trees. It will be the first fall of World After, and soon following will be the first winter.

Burdened by these thoughts, I sneak a glance at Raffe. He crouches with his back to me atop a boulder pockmarked with glossy moss, black wings partially splayed to the sky. We haven't spoken much since he first set me down; almost instantaneously, he'd refocused his attention on preening through every last feather of his reclaimed wings. The reverent intimacy he'd regarded them with had been heart-wrenching. My cheeks warm slightly and I look away, a memory of me crouching beside Raffe to briskly straighten a feather caught in disarray before rising and marching off reviving in my mind's eye. Just as I had been then, I'm not sure I want to know how he'd reacted to the act of generosity.

Shaking my mind free of its heavy focus of attention, I rise from my position by the dying fire, abandoning the dim glow of red embers and fluttery ash. The dull pain awakens in my limbs the moment I arise, like an old monster waking in my bones. The dust swirls around my feet as I go to sit beside Paige. Her eyes lift to meet mine, but, otherwise, she does not react.

My legs fold, sending my weight shifting uncomfortably. The rocks jab into the palms of my bruised hands, but I tenaciously lean against them, all the same. Paige blinks once, twice. Her gaze is still trained on me, a question in her eyes.

"Hey, baby, why are you sitting around Beliel's body?" I pluck a strand of mousy hair from her scarred face, tucking it behind an ear. "Why don't you want to move on?"

Paige watches me with sorrowful eyes. Her shoulders move in the slightest notion of a shrug; the stitches restrict her movement to the point where my Paige can't even shrug without pain.

I don't want to see what she'll be like on the long road ahead of us.

Despite the feral beauty of our surroundings, I'm actually pretty anxious to move on, away from this desolate place. The scorpions had taken us to a national or state park somewhere, judging by the wide expanse of trees and cruel wilderness encompassing our. It wouldn't be that bad of a place to camp out if I knew the first thing about hunting – mule deer thrive in these forests, the ones buried this deeply in once-protected lands seemingly unafraid of humans. But why should they be? We aren't kings of the food chain anymore. We're prey, too.

I can't hunt, however, and the flourishing population of the deer only seems to drive that home. Besides, there's something else here, something that I can't put my finger on… and it's unnerving. Like I'm being watched by eyes that know the world in a different way than I do. Like I've stepped into an elaborate trap lain before me. I've kept an eye out for any hellions, and I'm sure Raffe has, too, but my gut says they're not the culprit. Raffe's insistence to constantly scan the area from his boulder throne means I'm not the only one feeling it, either. Even Paige seems on edge, the way she hovers over Beliel's husk.

"Is it something he'd done to you?" My hand brushes her hair from her face. She shakes her head. "Is he… a food source?" My throat dries, but the words aren't choked or raspy – to show her that I find that new attribute revolting would be unwise, considering how hard she's trying to be normal. Thankfully, though, she shakes her head again.

Sick curiosity mounts with each question Paige nulls. "What is it, then?"

Paige's mouth creaks open, her bruised lips parting. A lively spirit dances in her eyes. The ghost of speech awakens on her tongue.

And yet, she never says a word.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid as Raffe leaps to his feet atop his proud boulder. The shadows of his wings mar the diamond sky. With a single bound, Raffe leaps from the stone, using his leathery wings to glide slightly on a current. He hits the ground running, wings tucking and hands forming blades. The intensity of his sprint jolts my bruised muscles into action. I rocket from the ground, pivoting around to see what had startled him.

My heart splutters in my veins and jaw drops open. A flare of panic sharpens my vision.

Raffe appears, his wings slamming out to their full length in a gesture of protection over both me and Paige. He bows into a low crouch, arms and feet wide to face any threat the beast poses. His posture is that of a tiger – lithe and agile, yet forged with power.

If Pooky Bear still responded to him and still answered to her rightful master, I'd be more than happy to let Raffe ward off the beast lounging beneath the trees. However, as it stands, Pooky Bear still only answers to me – even if she's ticked off by that fact herself.

Pooky Bear hisses as she slides from her scabbard, a sound like a reveling snake. I can almost feel her ecstasy, her eager tongue awaiting the taste of blood. Her blade glints in the sun, a fair warning to any who may pass. Paige huddles against my legs as I shuffle around her, placing my body between hers and the beast's. Raffe's wings hinder me shuffling forward and standing beside him, those scythes gleaming in the daylight like fishhooks.

"Raffe," I growl in a soft voice. "What is that?"

At first, Raffe doesn't utter a word; his gaze is glued to the beast stirring in the shadows. His taut muscles only tighten further, hands curling into fists. Paige, responding to the fear stagnant in the air, retreats a few steps worriedly, her eyes wide. Her sharp teeth gnash together, the sound chilling my bones. The metallic clicks only draw the eyes of the beast. Two ears swivel to focus on Paige.

"Get close to the fire," orders Raffe, his voice low and powerful.

I'm not sure what his plan is. An averagely sized predator could easily outrun me and Paige, never mind this beast, and Raffe can't carry us both. To respond to the flight instinct rattling erratically within my pulse would be suicide. I suppose, backed against a wall, I could fight it off – but killing an angel had not been easily done. Burnt and the others had left me with bruises mottling over my body in clouds of bitter purple, green, and yellow. Aches that can't facilely be ignored accompany the visible wounds.

My legs scream in protest as I grab Paige's arm, attempting to be mindful of her own bruises as I drag her to the fire. Though somewhat confused, she follows willingly, feet plodding heavily after me. She stumbles slightly, my grip the only factor keeping her propelled over the grassy hillside.

My abrupt halt at the circle of stones catches Paige off guard; her body crashes clumsily against mine, a few stitches hooking on my clothes. She yanks back instinctively, grimacing as those few stitches pop and ooze blood. Gently, I nudge her behind me, keeping one hand on her hair. Pooky Bear sings for death in my other hand, her blade adjusting to my angle.

Raffe is only half a step behind me, his wings still splayed protectively. I catch a single glimpse of his grim expression – Raffe seems to be just as unhappy with our situation as I am. A slight tremor runs through his demonic wings, quivering in the way porcupines show off their spikes to a larger predator. His fists ball and his back arches, feet sliding apart into their ready position. The sight of him preparing for a fight clenches my muscles, and excites Pooky Bear even more.

The beast snorts once. Dappling over its coat in aimless patterns, the light sways with a breeze that dances through the clearing. With the wind ruffling its pelt, the beast steps into the sunlight, each step measured and regal. It seems like a god emerging from its domain, a true guardian angel's first few steps into the light. The deep power of its gaze captures my attention, the rapturing shades of hypnotizing copper and red swirling together. The beast pauses a few strides from the forest shadows, pricking its ears. Even Raffe seems entranced by its mysterious gaze, his muscles softening.

The beast drops the stick in its mouth.

The moment is broken.

The beast whines like a dog and crouches before the stick, smile over its black lips and rear end in the air. A mischievous gleam glows in its reddish brown eyes.

Pooky Bear wavers in air slightly. Paige peeks from behind my leg, her cold hands against my thighs. Raffe freezes, his sculpted body pausing. My brow scrunches, my sweaty palms loosening their grip around Raffe's sword.

The beast tosses its head up in the air and releases a yowl, one that deepens into a playful growl. Pink tongue waggling, he nudges at the stick, then glances up at Raffe expectantly.

The beast looks like a wolf. It's massive, head larger than mine, but it doesn't seem particularly threatening. Ruddy brown fur resembling the color of cinnamon frames its body, sleek and scruffy, not thick and fluffy. Around his neck is a chest plate, layered with pieces of engraved gold and bronze metal. The chest plate links to a leather saddle positioned on its shoulders, with a girth tracing behind his front legs. His legs are perhaps the most peculiar aspect – all four of his forelegs are abnormally long, and slender. Though the rest of the beast's leg is elongated, the forelegs are particularly slim and disproportionate to the rest of his body. It would've reminded me of a horse's legs, if the limbs had not been tipped with lupine paws and canine in structure.

At the sight of the wolf, Paige scurries out from behind me. I catch her before she can squirm beneath Raffe's wings, hand closing sharply over her shoulder, but still, she seems reluctant to back away from the canine. The beast releasing another whimpering cry and shoving the stick slightly closer to Raffe doesn't help my plight any.

"It's a dog," I state blandly, casting a quizzical glance in Raffe's direction. "A dog with some sort of saddle. What are you? Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?"

Raffe's glare informs me that I'm insufferable, the daggers in his eyes worse than poison in his tone. "It could be a demon mount," he speculates darkly. "And besides, all humanity's culture is derived from the fear of the Big, Bad Wolf. You should be cowering."

Hostility rises in my heart to meet his bitterness on the field of battle. "Yeah, well," I point out, "we depicted angels as innocent cherubs, so obviously, something's wrong with the textbooks."

Cocking his head to look me in the eye, Raffe scowls. "You mean you _can't_ picture me as a chubby winged baby? Why the hell not?"

"You wouldn't be chubby." My mind's eye shies from the thought of mini Raffe in a diaper. "You'd be… narrow."

He shoots another abasing glance at me. "Your fantasies are quite flattering; muscled from infancy does seem to be in my character, doesn't it?"

"I said narrow because 'sickly' and 'scrawny' are cruel," I chastise. "Your head can carry you even higher than your wings."

"Anything's better than being grounded here with that attitude," he mutters darkly beneath his breath. The rest is a discord of mumbles, drowned out by yet another howl of the Big, Bad Wolf.

"I'm going to throw that stick." Pooky Bear's complaints are vulgar, but I sheath her all the same. With one finger, I poke the leathery skin along his demonic wings. "Move, please."

Raffe's eyes blaze again. His head cocks to mine permanently, and his jaw clenches. "That is quite possibly the worst idea you've had since I've known you. Penryn, that's saying something."

"I don't know." Best keep him talking, whilst hatching a plan to evade the tarplike wings pinning me against the fire pit. "Sticking around to help you fight Beliel around the scorpions was pretty awful."

My viselike grip on Paige's shoulder loosens. Her eyes dart up to mine briefly, a portrait of understanding painting her stitched face.

"Yes." Raffe shakes his head distractedly, eyes distant. "That most definitely takes the cake for worst idea. Ever. In the history of the Young family."

My grip on Paige's shoulder releases.

She darts beneath the row of scythes, before Raffe truly comprehends the situation. Some part of me resents that I've released my little sister to greet a two-ton wolf, but I know that she's taken down greater foes than that mutt.

Raffe growls, his eyes widening in surprise. His head swings around to watch my little sister, and the wings blocking me from approaching the creature falter. I shove against the barriers, shouldering my way around Raffe to get nearer to both my sister and the beast. Raffe's guttural groan of frustration is amplified.

However, contrary to my intentions, once I've hustled my way around Raffe, I don't draw that much closer to my sister – instead, I watch from a distance, eyes round with awe. Paige has her gaze locked on the wolf's; she's gradually crouching down, fingers roaming the grass to select the stick. When her tiny fingers close around the coarse bark, she hefts it high above her head. The wolf's eyes become as large and reflective as a pond, his jaw dropping open to reveal rows of teeth glistening with drool, drool that beads over his tongue and slavers from the corners of his mouth.

Paige lifts the stick high, waving it about, her expression stern.

The wolf whines, and collapses into a sitting position.

Paige's expression hardens further, cold as marble.

With an impatient whimper, the beast sinks to the ground, his belly scraping the floor and his plush tail thrashing violently from side to side.

Paige's hand swishes back the twig, and flicks it in the standard throwing procedure. The churning flight of the stick is turbulent and sloppy. My heart tugs as it sails not even ten feet to her left before hitting the ground with a dejected thud.

The wolf rises all the same with a yelp of joy, scurrying after the bone. He snaps it up playfully, the crack of its teeth on wood jolting my heart-rate only slightly. Convulsing as he shakes the stick around to "kill" it, the beast prances forward proudly. Despite the weak throw, he drops it before Paige again, and sits obediently.

Paige had visibly deflated, seeing the distance her toss had gone. My baby girl's never been that strong an athlete, even with full use of her legs. But now, with stitches devouring her flesh, she can barely walk without her eyes watering with tears. Throwing a stick must've been immensely painful for her. And yet, instead of ignoring Paige and dismissing her as an awful thrower, the beast crouches before her again, faith bright in its red eyes.

Paige's lips pinch slightly, her version of a broad grin. The closest thing to delight I've seen in a long time shines in my baby girl's eyes. A smile spreads across my face as she stiffly bends down to pick the stick up, flicking it over her head again. It goes an even shorter distance, but still, the wolf enthusiastically picks it up and totes it back to Paige, lying down before her and waiting for my baby girl to throw it for him again.

I glance triumphantly over my shoulder at Raffe. "See? No demon mount to be found!"

His expression is sour with disbelief. "You let the sister you risked the aerie for approach this mutt without a whim on how it may react."

My brow cocks. "She took out Beliel, something even you can't manage. She befriended the giant wolf, something you didn't have the guts to."

"A giant wolf friend isn't exactly wise," sighs Raffe wearily. "Stealth missions will be impossible if it ends up following us."

"Who says we're going on stealth missions?" I challenge, eyes narrowing.

"To find a new physician, we will be." Raffe crosses his arms over his chest, lip curled in an argumentative gesture.

My throat goes dry, as if it's been lined with sandpaper. Gaze deserting Raffe and instead scraping the horizon, I mutter, "Who says _Paige and I_ are going on stealth missions?"

Raffe blinks in disbelief, his arms falling back to his sides. The words leaving my mouth seem surreal to even I – the thought of breaking ties with Raffe is simply impossible to conjure. But my sister comes first to me, even above the Wrath of God's precious wings. I don't want to leave Raffe – having someone to watch my back has been almost magical, and even the thought of being without him makes me feel barren. But I will do what I have to in order to keep Paige safe. Safe as she can be, at least.

To avoid the blatant incomprehension in Raffe's eyes, I turn back to the wolf. He drops the stick before Paige once more, tongue lapping once up its rough length in an affectionate gesture. Inching forward, I lift a hand to the wolf. Paige snatches up the stick and backs away slightly, allowing the wolf and I to enjoy a bonding moment.

At first, the wolf follows Paige for a few strides, ears perked towards her and mouth grinning expectantly. Still, she backs away, shaking her head marginally. Refused by his friend, the wolf turns to meet me, jaw shutting and eyes glinting with childish curiosity. He tilts his head as I approach, black nostrils flaring.

The wolf does not falter. His gaze does not quaver from mine. Raw power circulates in the spheres of reddish copper, the layered slices of bronze and crimson and gold. His cinnamon fur ruffles in the sunlight as he sends a shudder through his pelt. A gruff woof resonates from somewhere deep within the wolf's throat.

After another moment of hesitation, it sniffs at my extended palm. The wolf's breath is like the dancing feet of a fairy over my skin, tender and delicate as winter's first crisp breath. He grunts and shakes out his mane, releasing a low howl of approval.

Dad had kept a German Shepherd around before Paige was injured. The dog became too much of a hassle to care for, though, when my little girl had her accident, so he'd been forced to sell the dog. The memories of caring for that huge pup still reside somewhere deep in the reservoirs of my childhood memories; I'd loved that dog with all of my innocuous heart. Rex, I think his name was.

Slowly, I lace an open-palmed hand through the silky fur on the wolf's cheek. After a moment of brief hesitation, it presses its head against my hand, eyes gleaming excitedly. It woofs, shaking out its mane again in a gesture I don't fully understand. I allow my hands to roam gingerly down its neck, massaging through the wolf's thick, coarse fur, until I reach the chest strap.

I suppose that this wolf could be a mount of some successful human or a bizarre breed of angels. The worn appearance marring the saddle leather proves that we are not the only beings the wolf has associated with. My question is merely what happened to the previous owners.

The warmth of the wolf's wiry fur is a sharp contrast to the bitter cold of the gold and bronze of the nameplate over the chest strap. My fingers wrap around the leather, gently pushing it up. I crane my neck down slightly, curious to read what name may have been engraved onto the surface for the regal being. Brow scrunching, I read aloud.

"Scruffy Mutt. Call me Scruffy." I tilt my head to one side to avoid bumping my forehead against Scruffy's chin. He proceeds to nuzzle my hair inquisitively as I read the smaller text, warm breath rifling over my scalp.

"If you're reading this, Scruffy is probably just out on one of his wanders. He'll return eventually, probably. Just throw something really far in the distance, so far he won't find it, and he'll be on his merry way. If you think he's _actually_ lost, well, just search for a crowd of screeching fangirls, and you'll find me. Shouldn't be that difficult. XOXO, Hugo."

"Marvelous," grumbles Raffe, burying his head in one hand. "We've now got a side quest to go find 'Hugo,' the fangirl king."

* * *

**I know my characterization may be a bit off – I haven't actually written that much for this fandom. If you have any polite pointers, CC is welcome! **

**So, here's how it's going to work! I only post every so often (I do have a very small social life, astonishing, I know), and although I try to make it frequent, I value quality above quantity of updates. If I ever rush something, you'll be able to tell. The first drafts are always crap. **

**There will be Raffryn, I swear to it – but not _pointless_ Raffryn. They're my SUPER ship and all, but if, in every chapter, I had a new and exciting moment with them, it would wreck any storyline I may create. Raffryn will emerge when due, and I'll write it romantically in some areas and sexually tense in others, I promise. ;)**

**One thing I like from readers are reviews - seriously, if you want to send me a review about how your day sucked, I'll read it and respond to it. You guys float my boat. You're my boaty-floaties. I like figuring out your characters through reviews.**

**Alright, so, every chapter, usually, I have a poll. I'll do the same with this one, because it helps me gather a lot more feedback! Even one-line answers are appreciated! (Ahem, *cough* ghost-readers *cough*)**

**POLL: Did I capture the banter okay in this chapter? I feel it could be improved; I've never been that good at dialogue.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"What should we do about Scruffy?" My voice is a subtle whisper, ushered solely for the sensitive ears of Raffe. My eyes trail the frolicking wolf's path as he prances around Paige, kicking like a feisty young stallion.

Raffe's spine uncoils, vertebrae after vertebrae visible through his shirt. His head swivels, eyes clashing against mine. The tense bitterness is evident in the twisted sneer he wears. Eyes narrowing, he questions darkly, "Why? I thought he was part of the crew now."

I stare at him blankly. "I never said I wanted him along, and you've made it pretty clear that you don't. He's entertaining Paige, and I'm grateful for that, don't get me wrong, but he'll be hard to travel with."

Raffe cranes his head back to the sky, holding two hands up in a gesture of wonder. Mocking colors his venomous tone. "Is that not what I said earlier? Is that not _exactly_ what I said earlier?"

Anger stirs in the pit of my stomach, irritation prickling over the palms of my hands. I glower at Raffe. "What is with you? You've been acting stingy ever since we've arrived."

Navy blue fire flares to life violently in Raffe's eyes. Agitation twists his mouth further, and his wings unfurl slightly. Every muscle in his body glows with discontent. "I want to leave the ground, Penryn," he snarls bitterly, raking a hand through his hair. "I want to stop all this damned hiding like a pathetic monkey. What I need is to be in the air, what I need are my wings, what I need is my sword, Penryn. I need to confront Uriel as soon as damn possible, and leave this wretched ground."

I stiffen. It's as though he's slapped me. "I wasn't aware that you felt that way. I'll go figure Scruffy out by myself, and you can sit here and mope."

"I do not mope!" Raffe's voice is sharp with rebuttal.

I don't waste the energy of responding, only marching further from him. Do not count me as a fool, I'd never even dreamed that Raffe would want to stay on the ground – but his words bite like a serrated blade, and his bitterness gnaws corrosively upon my respective image of the archangel.

A hand closes around my forearm, jolting me away from my stride. The hand holds firm despite my attempts to dislodge Raffe's grip, yanking me back towards him until I stare into Raffe's eyes. His gaze is intense.

"I didn't mean that," he husks, a weary sigh laced through his words. Raffe's gaze drops to the ground before meeting my eyes again. "I lust for my wings and other precious things that aren't rightfully mine to treasure. That's taken its toll."

Like a beast stirring beneath turbulent ocean waters, I sense a double-meaning in his words – but I can't pick up on it, not in the moment. Certainty is present – certainty that his sentences will return to me, certainty that the twisted phrases will unwind, certainty that they will haunt me late into the star-dappled night. My eyes rest upon the imploring gaze of Raffe for a few seconds more.

Yanking my arm from his grip, I grumble, "Any ideas for Scruffy, then, big guy?"

Raffe relaxes, straightening again, his intense stare returning to its regal indifference. The archangel seems a tad less stressed than he'd appeared to be earlier. "Well, the tag says to throw that stick as far as we can," points out Raffe, melodic voice a balm to my still prickling nerves. "We should be able to simply toss the wolf away."

"Are you sure?" I hedge. I'm not that much better at throwing than my lame sister. "I mean, it's coming from Hugo, king of fangirls. Doesn't seem like a reliable source."

Raffe's sigh is melodramatic. "Throw the stick, Penryn. If it doesn't work, we'll go from there."

Reluctantly, I glare at him, and then approach the wolf.

Currently, Scruffy and Paige are caught in a brutal battle of tug of war – it seems like the wolf's only half-trying, his fangs the only things gripping the slender stick. Paige tugs on it with all her might. Before, she'd popped a few stitches throwing the stick to him, so the two had found a compromise in playing less trying games.

At my approach, Scruffy's coppery red eyes roll up to meet mine. His tail thrashes a little more wildly than it had before, thumping against the ground repeatedly. A long thread of drool traces between his fangs, swaying above one of his paws.

"Scruffy," I coo, patting my thighs in invitation. "C'mhere, Scruffy! Here, boy! Scruffy!"

He drops the stick in my sister's lap, rising from the ground and pricking his ears. With a lively step, Scruffy pads over, eyes bright. The _whuff, whuff, whuff_ of his nose travelling up my arm and into my hair tickles. Apparently, the scent of something very interesting has found it's way to my hair because he doesn't stop smelling my head for a while, no matter how times I pat his neck. Glancing at Paige, I gesture her over.

The taut smile tugging at Paige's stitches fails with one glance in my direction. Her hand weakly holding the stick in the air pitches. Face crumpling, Paige trudges her way to my side, eyes downcast. Without removing my hand from Scruffy's neck, I take the stick from her, prying her little fingers off the wood.

Raffe's eyes are lasers trained acutely on my back as I lift the stick above my head. Scruffy's pupils nearly swallow his irises. Saliva cascades through his fangs, and the wolf collapses to the ground. His face is painfully alert, ears twitching towards the stick and eyes following its every move.

Attempting to throttle as much strength as possible into my arm, I chuck the stick.

Raffe's boisterous laugh is like a cacophony of thunderclaps behind me as it sails just barely over the trees, clipping more than one limb.

He cuts off abruptly when it disappears amongst the trees and someone cries out in pain.

Scruffy growls menacingly and takes off through the woods. His strides cleave through the underbrush like a dagger, leaving a precise path in his wake. Paige cocks her head, the beginning of a snarl sending trembles through her bruised body. My hand flies to Pooky Bear's hilt, half-unsheathing the glinting blade. Raffe rises from his leisurely slouch, wings unfurling like two leather-bound scrolls.

A tense silence follows the disappearance of Scruffy, as fragile as a pane of glass and as silent as a night when the wolves forget to howl. My breath is stolen by the quiet of the second. The sun beating overhead seems to glimmer, its golden rays flickering hypnotically in the air, with just the hint of bronze riding the light's wings.

"Good going, Penryn." Raffe's voice is quiet. "If I'm right – and I usually am – you've just hit an old man upside the head with that brilliant throw of yours."

Worry sings in my heart, terror preying pitilessly with my anxiety. "What do you mean? There's an old man creeping around?"

"Hobbling, actually." He nods, almost to himself. "He's been hobbling around on the outskirts of my hearing. But his breathing is labored and his footsteps are obnoxiously loud – he's nothing I wouldn't be able to take care of if he stumbled too close."

Something slams into me like a ton of bricks. Guilt plucks my heartstrings like a musician at a harp. "You're telling me that I've just hit an old man?" My speech catches. "An old human man hobbling through the forest?"

"There's no saying he's not hostile, Penryn," lectures Raffe. "It'd be unwise to –"

A strangled bay sounds from through the trees. Scruffy sounds like he's desperate, calling for us.

"If he's hostile, you'll take care of him," I conclude. "If not, I'll go apologize."

Raffe's sigh is saturated with disapproval. "Penryn–"

I shove Pooky Bear back into her scabbard, glancing only once over my shoulder before I plunge into the shadows of the forest. "Just because I live in hell doesn't mean I have to act like a savage."

Once emerged in the woods, a primal instinct nestled deep within cowers. The bloodcurdling sensation of being watched is only amplified amongst these trees, the ones that have watched the centuries tick by. Each shadow quivers with the slightest wind. My skin prickles, hairs standing on end. Despite my noble claim about rejecting savagery, a primitive kernel of ancestral terror is awakened by the sway of the leaves in the breeze.

Though the sound his footsteps make over the crackling blanket of leaves is somewhat softer than mine, I can hear Raffe begrudgingly tailing after me – I do not need to see his face to know that is has been chiseled from disapproval.

Paige, however, is a ghost through the trees. Her animalistic lope beside me makes not a sound, leaving not a leaf out of place in her path. Her shadow is the only notion of her having passed at all. With one hand, I wave her back to the clearing. To my surprise, she obeys.

Over the small dent in the hills, a little ravine cutting apart a mountain, we find Scruffy, and a man crumpled on the ground beside him.

Scruffy enthusiastically bathes the man's faces in licks, burying the man's muffled complaints beneath his fleshy tongue.

As I study the pair of them, Raffe's breath tickles the back of my neck. I start in surprise, my body slamming against his. One hand steadies me, landing at my shoulder, but he seems more annoyed than generous.

The man shoves Scruffy's nose away with a thundering chuckle, the kind of laugh forged in the deepest pit of the chest. Rocking unsteadily, he clambers to his feet, hooking two fingers through Scruffy's saddle to heft himself off the ground. Leaves spiral from his clothing. Smiling broadly from ear to ear, the man waves at me, but he does not utter a word.

He's not a heavyset man, not in any terms, but he's not scrawny like many of the people wandering the streets today; no, any largeness is contributed to veined muscle. Not much of his skin is showing, but what is bared is deeply tanned.

A roughly handled off-white shirt sheathes his torso, frayed cuffs at the wrists. Each pocket of his cargo pants is filled with various items like multiple pocket watches, spare gears, and rusted wrenches, all of them giving him an aura like he belongs in a different century. A threadbare apron covers most of his clothing – it's so discolored and filthy with oil and grease I can't really tell what color it used to be. Adorning his head is a pair of mechanic's glasses that look like they'd been pickpocketed from a World Before cosplay.

That's what this man looks like. A steampunk mechanic.

He lifts a massive hand, revealing that the fingers are short and the pads of his palms are heavily calloused, the flesh seemingly shielded beneath layers of skin.

"Uh, hi," I greet. He beams at me, encouraging me to go on with a swooping gesture of one hand. "Did I hit you with the stick?"

His swollen cheeks blush scarlet. With one hand, he taps his forehead – already, a small lump is bloating beneath the surface of his wrinkled skin.

The man's face is far from beautiful. His smile is broad and his lips are thick. Grey eyebrows creep over his face like caterpillars. His forehead is large, large and long. Though they glitter like miniature stars, his brown eyes sit on his cheeks. His nose is round and too bulky for his face. Only a few scraggly grey hairs keep him from being labeled as bald, and they stick out every which way, much resembling Albert Einstein's famous haircut. A thick, bushy beard is tucked beneath his greasy apron.

"Sorry," I apologize, trying and failing not to stare at his bizarre appearance. "I was just trying to throw a stick to Scruffy." I jerk a thumb to the wolf, who'd promptly sat at his name. "You know Scruffy?"

The man beams at me, nodding so hard his head could go flying off. Chuckling, he pats Scruffy twice on the neck, before pointing out the stick. Stooping low, he scoops up Scruffy's stick with one massive hand. He lifts it high above his head, raising it like a sword.

Scruffy is trying to recreate Niagara Falls with the amount of drool oozing from his lips. Eyes wider than tennis balls, he squirms anxiously, whimpering pathetically. With a casual flick of the man's wrist, the stick flies through the woods, Scruffy hot on its heels.

"You would be Hugo?" guesses Raffe, his tone lazily arrogant. Raffe leans against a tree at the crown of the ridge, shadowed by the leaves.

This time, the man shakes his head remorsefully.

My eyes are wide with fascination. "Can you speak?" Cautiously, I inch down the little hill, the slick leaves proving to be treacherous.

The perky eyebrows reigning above his eyes sink. The man shakes his head again.

"You're mute?" I verify, watching his lips.

The man looks away bashfully, nodding again.

Glancing once back at Raffe, I slide down the hill a little more. I hit the pit of their ravine with a thump. Raffe, on the other hand, scowls from atop the ridge, watching me go with a tart bitterness buried in his eyes.

"Is there any way you can tell us what your name is if it's not Hugo?" I question politely. If I get any closer to him, I'd appear threatening to an old man walking alone in the woods, so at a ten foot distance is good for both me and him.

The man's shy nature evaporates as Scruffy returns, panting. First, the man kicks out a clear patch of leaves, ignoring Scruffy's whimpered pleas. The wolf practically shoves his stick in the man's face as he tries to clear the leaves. He wrestles the stick from Scruffy's mouth, shoving a fist between the wolf's fangs. With a playful growl, Scruffy releases the stick. Instead of throwing it, though, the man leans down and carves something into the unearthed soil with the tip of the stick.

I cast a glance back to Raffe's discontented figure. He glares at me in response.

Eventually, the man rises from his hunched position. He lifts the stick over his head, waits for Scruffy to sit, and then chucks the stick again. Scruffy races off, kicking up leaves behind him. Spreading his hands wide in welcome, the man backs away, steps crunching over the fallen foliage. He leaves a fair amount of distance between him and the wet dirt he'd drawn in.

My hand rests on Pooky Bear's hilt as a formality more than anything; if the man should pounce, Raffe will be on him before I get Pooky from her scabbard. The leaves hinder each step I take, their hisses of displeasure echoing obnoxiously through the woods. Once I reach the bare spot, I crouch down slightly, squinting.

"Og – Ogden. Is Ogden right?" I look up at him questioningly.

Ogden smiles, shooting me a double thumbs-up.

"What are you doing out here, _Ogden_?" inquires Raffe sharply, his voice like a razor. "All alone, in the middle of the forest?"

Ogden's eyes widen at the sight of Raffe, his stance faltering. It's as though, before, he'd never taken into account the demonic wings framing Raffe's broad shoulders and cutting blue eyes. Raw terror consumes his face for a second. But before I can fully comprehend his change in moods, Ogden seems to switch from horror to the adept curiosity of a puzzled scientist.

Turning to me with a question in his eyes, Ogden jerks a thumb towards Raffe, cocking an eyebrow quizzically.

"Answer the question." Raffe's voice is as hard and cold as a slab of marble, unamused by Ogden.

Ogden raises his hands in mock surrender, bowing his head. He proceeds to scratch his bearded chin, staring up to the sky with exaggerated acting. Then, brandishing one finger high, he grins.

Ogden makes the signature two-legs out of his index and middle finger with one hand and has them walk across the palm of another. It's like a game of charades, which, even in the World Before, I sucked at.

"You were walking," I guess stupidly.

Ogden raises a hand in the fifty-fifty signal, pursing his lips leniently.

"Were you walking somewhere, or merely wandering?" asks Raffe coldly.

At the last word of Raffe's question, Ogden beams and shoots a thumbs-up. He seems proud to have gotten his point across, childish grin too young for his weathered features.

"Ogden, do you know where Hugo is?" I wonder. "Or where you are in this forest? Can you navigate?"

To each question, Ogden nods a hearty yes.

My stomach releases a particularly ferocious growl, hunger wailing like a demented dolphin. I blush self-consciously, as if the etiquette rules of the World Before matter around Ogden. "Sorry," I apologize hurriedly, clapping a hand on my grumbling stomach as both Raffe and Ogden turn to me. "I haven't had much to eat in a while."

Ogden's bushy eyebrows pinch together sympathetically. A friendly smile pulls at his lips, and, with one hand, he circles over his own belly. Then, he lifts both hands in unison to create an upside-down V.

"Camp," I guess. Hope flurries like a trapped bird in my heart, my pulse spluttering. "You have food at your camp?"

Scruffy pads up while Ogden nods. He pulls the stick from Scruffy's mouth, and turns his back to me. Glancing back encouragingly, he waves me to follow him as he hobbles off with mismatched strides, Scruffy padding steadfastly by his side. An air of nostalgic mystery seems to depart with them.

"Penryn!" snaps Raffe crossly the moment my first footfall hits the leaves.

"What harm can he do us?" I call over my shoulder. "He's terrified of you!"

"And if he leads us into a trap?" The radical edge in Raffe's voice is dripping with disapproval. "What then?"

"That's why we'll leave Paige and your wings here. If things turn out bad, you can scoop me into the sky. We'll grab everything and go." Smug with my plan, I grin over my shoulder at him.

"What if I refuse to follow you?" challenges Raffe rebelliously. "Your back-up plan would be nullified."

"I'll either have a nice, tasty dinner with my sister or I'll be sitting alone in a coffin," I speculate. "I never said you had to come. I suppose I could always run back if things are nasty. And besides, you have all the makings of a brilliant babysitter."

Raffe sighs hollowly. "You'd better catch up to Ogden before you lose him. I'll secure my wings and lecture your sister, and then I'll be on your tail."

* * *

**New character! Yay! Still no Hugo. Hmm. **

**If you see any spelling or grammatical errors, let me know!**

**POLL: Do you think that Ogden is legitimate or that he's leading Penryn to a trap?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"Would it be rude of me to ask why you're mute?" My voice is tentative in the overall quiet, disturbing the rustle of our feet over the blanketing leaves. Ogden seems surprised, his dark eyes widening, but he swiftly rocks his head from side to side.

His swollen cheeks redden. Ogden tilts his head to me, and, bashfully, opens his mouth.

Inside of Ogden's red maw sits no tongue – at least, not much of one. A pink lump lingers near the back of his throat, distorted and riddled with uneven lumps. It's not a natural malformation, but rather one seemingly severed by a sharp blade. Before I can study it intensely, Ogden shuts his mouth again, ruddy cheeks vivid.

"How did that happen?" I wonder, eyes wide with the sympathy gnawing at my heart. I know of religions that require snipping off the tip of the tongue, but I've never heard of nor seen such cruel torture as afflicted to Ogden. Besides, the childish old man hardly seems the type to commit to an extremist group.

Ogden does not respond, gaze glued the rise and fall of his boots.

"Sorry," I apologize after seconds of silence. "That was prying, wasn't it?"

"You might as well become used to it," calls Raffe from behind me. "Penryn pries much more than anyone I know."

My glare needled with daggers clashes against his arrogant façade.

Ogden glances over his shoulder, then back at me. A single hand shuffles through each of his pockets, the clinking of metal accompanying each dive into his cargo pants. Scruffy seems alert, ears swiveled towards Ogden, as if hidden somewhere amongst the gears, there are treats for the giant wolf. From the pits of a pocket in his apron, Ogden pulls a frayed notebook clipped with a small pen across the rings.

Uncapping the pen, he writes onto the notebook.

Raffe and I exchange a glance. He's as grim and suspicious as ever.

Once he's finished, Ogden pushes the notebook into my hand. There's only one thing written on the page with uneven handwriting and temperamental ink.

_Would it be rude of me to ask why Arch Raphael is neither angel nor demon?_

I, myself, would like the details to that question. I fall back a step, my stride greeting Raffe's. Tilting the pad so he can read it easier, I hold it out to him. The mild curiosity on his face is rapidly succeeded by first alarm, then suspicion, and finally a calm, cool mask of regal indifference.

"That would be rude, yes," decrees Raffe disapprovingly, "but I suppose I can't leave you empty-handed. Spread your rumors if you will, but I haven't Fallen – just… taken some things that don't belong to me. I plan on giving them back."

Ogden frowns, as if he knows that Raffe's summary of events is massively inaccurate, but he shrugs and plods onwards. Although he seems curious, the old man knows when not to pry.

Glancing once more at Raffe, I join Ogden again, handing him back the notebook. Smiling gratefully, Ogden stuffs it into a random pocket again, slipping the ballpoint pen into another. Then, I fall back once more. Raffe watches me as I regain my placement by his side from the corners of his eyes, but he doesn't breathe a word of sarcasm.

Our surroundings cannot be described as anything but beautiful – not the beautiful as in the first breath of a newborn child or the beautiful as in the sultry red lips of a curved woman, but the feral, untamed majesty that only wild places such as this forest can survive. Jutting through the woods are giant boulders that reach to the sky with stone fingers, and sloping cliffs slick with leaves. We pass more than one roaring creek riddled with waterfalls and salamanders darting through the crystalline waters. Everywhere we go, an eagle's call seems to mock our every step, echoing through the canopy like a declaration of wild beauty.

The very same beauty has made the trail treacherous; at times, I've slipped or lost my balance, the unsteady stones among the stable easily fooling me. Once, I'd stepped in a bitter cold creek, allowing my left foot to freeze to death. Raffe was caught by surprise when he walked into an overhanging branch, the crack of his forehead against bark a mighty one, but otherwise he seems at home with the forest.

Despite his crippled legs, Ogden's stride is powerful, storming ahead of us. The old man reminds me slightly of an ox – he's not exactly the prettiest thing in the world, but strong and tough enough to get the job done. His frame is the one of the aged bodybuilder. Once, in his exuberant prime, Ogden was probably a grunt worker or an athlete. The way he walks without a staff of any type illustrates that he's confident and at ease with his aging as well – Ogden has not stumbled once, despite that loping hobble he has.

Scruffy is confident on the trail, as well. More than once, he's shied from a bird suddenly taking flight or a lizard darting across the leaves, but not once has he quavered from the path Ogden takes. Loyalty glitters as acutely as the copper in his eyes. Seeing the wolf's bobbing trot causes a question to refocus.

"Is Scruffy some type of harmless demon?" I wonder, prepared to discern more of Ogden's body language.

"No," answers Raffe for me. His gaze is trained on the wolf as well. "Demons are never harmless. They're treacherous and foul, and any appearances they may have that lean towards innocence are masks to hide the wickedness inside. For that reason, this pathetic creature is not a demon."

Ogden's head tilts back, as if he's listening in on our conversation.

"But what if Scruffy's wearing one of those masks?" I challenge. "What then?"

"A demon speaks in riddle and rhyme, which Scruffy does not do. A demon burns beneath sunlight, which Scruffy does not do. A demon's growl instills fear in the hearts of Men. Or Daughters of Men. Your sister pranced right up to Scruffy after hearing him growl at his stick."

"Right, so, not a demon. What is he, then?"

Raffe frowns, pondering. "That, I'm not sure. Maybe a human scientist's biological experiment. Maybe a monster – on occasion, there is just a random creature spawned not from Hell but from Earth. Scruffy is a mystery to me."

"Oh. Okay." I don't feel that there's anything more to add to the conversation.

Ogden shrugs and mimes scratching his head when my eyes clap against his.

Another silent moment passes.

"So, he's more like a friendly, fluffy monster, then?"

Raffe sighs. "Why? Are you going to rename _him_ Pooky Bear, too?"

It's pleasant to have Raffe back to his normal, teasing self. That other side of him, frustrated and angry, had been difficult to both communicate with and tolerate. Inspired by the turn of our conversation, I smirk.

"Oh, no, only Pooky Bear likes glittery skirts. Which reminds me." I unsheathe Pooky Bear and smile at her teasingly. "What do you want this time, Pooky Bear? Tutus are so mainstream… maybe next time, I'll get you a tiara! Or Cinderella's glass slippers! We've got to trash the Teddy Bear image; it's just not working for me, you know? How about a unicorn? Or a pegasus? Or maybe a unicorn pegasus!" My gasp is overacted. "I know! I'll get you wings, so you and Raffe will match! What do you think we should go for: Tinkerbell or Cupid?"

Anger flares from the blade. Raffe's glower is as scalding as hellfire.

"Right," I answer for Pooky Bear, nodding in grave agreement. "_Always_ go with Tinkerbell."

"You know," threatens Raffe solemnly, "someday, she's just going to leap from that scabbard and saw your head off, and there'll be nothing I'll be able to do about it."

I bat my eyelashes at him, not completely hiding the sneer curling my lips. "I don't know what I'd do without my Knight in Feathered Armor. Thank goodness you're here, Princy Pie!"

Ogden observes the banter thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder with an odd scrunched look dominating his misshapen face.

"If we were in a fairytale," Raffe estimates, "you'd definitely be the Evil Queen. No doubt about it."

"But Disney villains get the _best_ songs!" I exclaim enthusiastically, twirling Pooky Bear in my hand. "I'd have a dark solo rivalling the likes of Scar's song!"

Raffe snorts rudely. "The day you sing something that even comes close to Scar's song is the day I eat a shoe."

"That should be my magical talent!" My grin broadens. "My voice is so awful that anyone who hears it has the irrational urge to eat a shoe! Call me" – I strike a fighter's pose with Pooky Bear in hand – "the Shoe Siren."

Ogden's reverberating chuckles thunder through his chest like an old drum. Scruffy licks up the side of Ogden's face at the noise experimentally.

"You are one-hundred percent crazy," Raffe scolds. "Absolutely insane."

"That's why I'm the villain, right, Knight in Feathered Armor?"

For the first time, Raffe cracks the slightest smile. It's just a mere smirk toying with the tips of his lips, but it's a smile all the same. His expression is so devilishly handsome, Satan himself would faint with envy.

"I wouldn't consider me any type of protagonist, either," he argues. "No, I'm much more skilled at the unfriendly wanderer image. Viewers like mysterious and sexy. Bad boys will always be a thousand times more interesting than the perfect man."

"I'm surprised you know so much about children's movies." I cock an eyebrow at him, watching Raffe through my lashes. "But a villainess doesn't need an emotionally unstable partner, either. Bad boys go better with good girls."

Raffe chuckles. "Not in all cases."

"True," I admit. "There was Robin Hood and Maid Marion. They were both good guys, or idolized like that. But Maid Marion died. So, as a female, I don't particularly like that partnership."

"It depends on the version," Raffe points out. "In Disney, which seems to be our theme, they lived happily ever after."

"Yeah, well." I shrug. "I never actually watched Disney's take on Robin Hood, just BBC's. And after Maid Marion died, Robin Hood's life kind of sucked, like the rest of the series."

"Once your eyes are adjusted to a glorious light, it's difficult to learn to see the world in any other way." Raffe's slight smile fades. "I can't say anything about the rest of the series, but you can't blame Robin for any failure."

Ogden's eyes sparkle with curiosity. Walking backwards, he jabs a thumb at his chest and tilts his head to one side.

"…What would you be?" I interpret, glancing him over. "That's what you're asking?

Ogden nods, head bobbing. His dark eyes sparkle, hands rubbing together eagerly.

Raffe frowns. "Maybe the old wise man," he guesses. "Like Merlin, or something."

"No…" My eyebrows pinch together. "He's far too playful for that. He reminds me a bit of the blind dude from 'Quest for Camelot,' except a little more spirited."

"I never saw that one," admits Raffe. "I've heard about it, though. The critics didn't seem to like it that much."

I shrug. "I didn't like it either, honestly, but Paige adored it. She was devastated to find out that there weren't any action figures for her to play with. But, Ogden" – I squint at him, stepping over a stray root – "I don't know where to categorize you. You're… different. Not in a bad way, though. I find you to be pretty cool, actually."

Ogden beams like a praised toddler, turning back to the front, grinning. His steps are high and his arms swing. Scruffy, enthused by Ogden's change in demeanor, pants louder. A thread of drool sways from his large pink tongue.

"Maybe he'd be a travelling character," considers Raffe. "A light wanderer to my mysterious and sexy."

I glance at him. "You seem to know an _awful lot_ about movies," I note. Delirious thoughts worm their way into my brain. "What, were you some sort of archangel couch-potato?"

Raffe's eyes go cold, dark blue webbed with frost. "_Excuse me?_"

I enthuse the thought a little while longer. "What, does that not even correlate to your angelic terms?" I tease. "Is Raphael too ashamed to admit his fascination in monkey television? Too proud to admit his obsession with Disney?"

"Your imagination must be bored," Raffe scolds. "You're going crazy. Maybe we should find a doctor for your mental health."

Through the trees, a voice calls, the tone light and the sound young. "Is it doctors you're interested in, then?"

Scruffy tosses up his head and howls jubilantly, springing forward like a rabbit. He bounds over a crest in the terrain, the wolf's excited yips quickly harmonized with the jovial laughter of some male voice. Beaming, Ogden limps a little quicker, waving excitedly to us.

"Hugo," mutters Raffe beneath his breath. Glancing once at me, he breaks into a jog

I dash forward, feet dancing over the leaves. Ogden hobbles weakly, trying to keep pace, but his crippled leg can't seem to compare to my long strides. Once, I slip on moss and nearly tumble to the leaves before regaining my footing, but mostly, I run flawlessly. Sliding down the hill separating me and the strange voice, I nearly crash into Scruffy.

What awaits me is another steampunk cosplayer sitting in a clearing.

"You took your time," he comments, coppery eyes flashing humorously. "Tell me, are you customers or friends? Customers are always welcome!"

"Wh – you're Hugo?" I stutter, confusion mounting.

"That would be me, yes," the boy concurs cheerfully. "What can I interest you in? I see you've already got an angel sword, but does it need mending? Or do you want an angel shield? There's a discount next week, so stick around, because it's really annoying to have to lug it around everywhere!"

Tall and thin, he is slighted by Raffe's height, but not by much. His face is much younger than I had originally expected, the juvenile curves reminding me of a fifteen-year-old's face, but, already, the dust of a beard dapples his chin. A grubby leather aviator's jacket with a fluffy edging sheathes a loose shirt; the cream-colored collar of his shirt crowns the slope of his neck, the pale color forcing the coiling black tattoo on his flesh to stand out more. A fingerless leather glove framed with brass covers one hand, and a utility belt wraps around his waist. Oddly stitched combat boots cuff dress pants at the knees. A black tie is casually hangs loosely around his neck. In his shaggy hair, a long strand of flashy beads is strewn, the gleam reminding me of abalone. It would be a lie to say that his appearance is not handsome in a quirky, youthful sort of fashion, but his coppery red eyes ruin the style slightly.

"My," he gasps excitedly, "are you Penryn? Penryn Young? Well, now, staring into the face of a celebrity! Then I guess that would be Pooky Bear" – he gestures flamboyantly towards the sword in my hand – "and that must be the terrifying angel Raphael!" Hugo backs away, eyes twinkling. "Don't eat me, kind archangel sir. I promise you, I'm nothing but skin and bones."

Raffe doesn't seem very amused. "What do you mean, you have angel shields?"

"Ah, I have _an_ angel shield." Hugo shrugs. "Don't rip me to pieces. I'm just a merchant, trading goods. The angel looked like he wanted it off his hands, so we organized a bargain. It's what I do. Ah, Ogden." Hugo parries around Raffe and scurries up the hill. "These people are confusing me. Are they customers?"

Ogden shrugs, then rubs his belly.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Hugo turns to me again with a beatific smile. "If you're here for food, we don't charge anything for meals. And if you're Ogden's friend, then I can give up my cheerful merchant façade." His face melts slightly from the tight glee it'd held moments before. One hand rubs at his eyes. He cracks his neck, yanking his head from side to side. "Oh, boy, I hate forcing cheer. Natural cheer is good. Faked auctioneer cheer is not."

"Wait, so you sell things?" My brow furrows. "Angelic items? That business can't be very profitable."

"Actually, it's not at all profitable. I just go from place to place and _trade_ items to anyone who wants to get rid of 'em. Any quirky magic items, and building materials." Hugo spreads his arms out, indicating the piles of clutter littering the relatively clean clearing. "Angel helms, angel swords, angel shields. No angel parts, stop giving me that glare, Batsy." He cocks a sassy eyebrow at Raffe. "I don't get anything out of the exchange if we're talking currency. But I make friends, valuable friends, and I pick up secrets. Yep, I only make actual business in my secrets."

"Angels have been coming to you?" Raffe's lip curls. "Why?"

"I'm a wee bit older than I look," admits Hugo humbly. One hand sifts through Scruffy's thick mane, as if he's searching the wolf for bugs. "Over the decades, I've struck up some friends among my feathered partners. Of course, most of the ones I've been associating with are in hiding – it's not safe for a solicitous angel, not anymore."

Raffe's jaw clenches. "Who are the angels you have been dealing with, exactly?"

"That's my policy." Hugo shrugs apologetically. "It's to ensure the safety of all my clients, unless, of course, I have a particular dislike of them or their opinions. Once, I got Michael, and he was a real bitch about getting some sandals. Like, I just had boots, so take the goddamned boots and get on with it. So when Thea came along asking about him, of course I told her I'd seen him!"

"Thea?" I inquire, a ghost of a memory spluttering my pulse.

"Yeah, I'm keeping her a secret," apologizes Hugo with a surreptitious glance in my direction. "But, seriously, Raphael and Penryn Young, running into me? Fate is such a delicious thing! Maybe, after you guys are nice and fed and plump, we can discuss maybe me giving away some secrets to the lovely Miss Young" – he tips his head respectfully – "in hopes that she may save humanity!"

Cautiously, I narrow my eyes at him. "What's for dinner?"

"Rabbit." He jabs a finger at a few of the fluffy morsels strung up from the low hanging limb of an evergreen tree. "Shot 'em this morning with my bow. Not for sale, by the way. Why?"

"And we can go if we'd like?" verifies Raffe.

"Well, yeah." Hugo's face scrunches, as if he's puzzled. "Why wouldn't you be able to? I mean, I don't think you're Fallen, but you can still fly with those wings, right?"

Raffe nods crisply, but his eyes are suspicious. "How do you know about the difference between angel and Fallen?"

"I told you." Hugo spreads his hands wide. "I work with all sorts of clients. Angels especially get offended if you call 'em by the wrong name. For example: one time, I called a seraph a cherub, and it nearly bit my head off. That would've been extremely bad."

"Who have you been funding recently?" I inquire.

"Can't say, but the twins certainly told me to keep an eye out for you." Hugo winks at me. "Obi thinks you're dead, but they're having none of it. Clever boys, they are. I taught them all they know."

"Wha –" I blink. "Whatever. The real question is: Will you stab me in the back tonight?" It's brunt, and most likely to be answered untruthfully, but I might as well cut to the chase.

"Well, I can't say for certain." Hugo scratches his chin, eyes twinkling. "I mean, if you come at me with Pooky Bear in hand, I'm not going to sit idly by. But if we make a mutual no-stabbing-in-the-back treaty, I can assure it, yes, but I'm afraid that Batsy here may try to hurt Scruffy." At the sound of his name, Scruffy mewls pathetically, his huge eyes glistening in the fading daylight. "He's not one to deal with wolves, now are you, Raphael?"

"Call me Wrath," snaps Raffe irritably, crossing his arms over his chest. The superiority he glares down at Hugo with reveals the Raphael just waiting to emerge: black, bitter, cold. _Dangerous_.

A wistful expression consumes Hugo's expression. "If only a greater percentage of you archangels were – were – at least bi! I'd take a bi archangel! But _no_, have to be straight, always straight… Ah well, what can I say? If there was a gay archangel, I'd know about it."

"You're…" I cock my head. "Gay?"

Raffe seems shell-shocked, blinking dumbly. His proud stance falters a little, settling into something slightly more defensive.

"Yep." Hugo nods enthusiastically as Scruffy laps at the side of his face. "Not Ogden, though; I'm not creepy, I swear. No, his wife died a little while back. Poor guy's all alone now."

Ogden blushes again, eyes downcast. My empathy for the old mute strengthens more than ever; it's as if someone is twisting my heart in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to him.

Ogden shrugs, and gestures towards Hugo, and smiles again.

"Even I don't know what you meant there, buddy," laughs Hugo apologetically, the tinkling bell his laughter seemingly belonging to a boy without a care. It's a laugh worthy of World Before.

Warily, I study Hugo's face, searching for any sign of hostile intentions. If he's traveled as much as he claims, then… he might know someone that could help Paige. "Do you know any medical personnel, with all your travels?"

Raffe half-cocks his head to watch me.

"So you _are_ looking for doctors." Hugo's enthusiasm fades. He scratches at the back of his neck, nails raking over the blank ink there. "Sorry, but not really. I mean, not anymore. The apocalypse and everything – no. Sorry, I don't know anyone. But…"

"But what?" I press urgently.

"We're meeting up with somebody that's been around a whole helluva lot longer time than me down the way a bit. Now, Bryon, he knows people, lots of people. That guy's got deep connections. If you stick around a bit, you might be able to talk to him."

"Bryon?" I question.

Hugo nods sheepishly. "Sorry, but that's one secret I can't let out. He's real nice, though. Practically raised me, and a whole buncha other misfits. You'll fit right in, I do believe." His eyes sparkle at that, as if some inner trickster had been delighted by his joke. Scruffy starts sniffing at his hair.

I nod slowly. "I think we'll need to talk it over" – I cast a sharp glance at Raffe – "but I think we should be able to come to an agreement. One more thing?"

"Yes?" wonders Hugo.

"I – I've got a sister. She's back at camp, and I probably need to fetch her before she gets too worried."

Hugo's eyes soften, melting like metal a forge. "Ah, yes, the poor little girl. She's welcome here. This camp is just filled with people who don't belong. She will be no different than Ogden and I."

A surge of gratitude floats my heart. "Thanks. I think she needs people that treat her like an actual human being."

Hugo's smile is dry. "Don't we all. Hey, if you want, I can give you a ride on Scruffy." He pats the wolf's shoulder, looping two fingers through the breast collar. Adoration swallows his expression as Hugo massages his wolf's neck. "I know he looks scrawny, but he's all muscle, I can assure you. You'll probably get there a little faster than just walking."

"Can that saddle hold more than one person?" I question skeptically.

"I know for sure it can hold two. If I need to walk on the return journey, I will."

Studying Scruffy's grinning face, I smile. "Sounds like a plan. Stay here, Raffe, and try to think of a reason not to trust these people. I'm coming up dry."

Ogden rolls his eyes, but still, the old man is grinning.

* * *

**I do not believe I have any commentary on this, other than: tada! I'm not sure when I'll actually get around to posting the chapter – I'm in the middle of Pride and Prejudice, an excellent book, dare I say, and I'm enjoying reading it. For years, I've watched the BBC 1995 version on repeat, but it's great to finally get around to having the book in hand. A word for the wise: always watch the 1995 version.**

**There was more than one inquiry after Josiah. Both times, there was a request for the underrated angel. I will have him appear, and he will become useful to the plot – but not quite yet. You have my word, he will be a character. Honestly? I like Josiah, a lot.**

**POLL: Hugo – sketchy or trustworthy?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

The embers resemble fairies, climbing high into the night. Ogden's dark eyes reflect the rising ash, orange specks swimming in the pools of brown. He sits next to me, separating Hugo and me. His face seems to be taken to another era by the swirling dance of the embers he so keenly evades, and his ignorance to the rest of the world is lucid over his misshapen face.

However, Hugo had clearly heard the question. His lips pull back into an impish smile, the firelight casting shadows over the sharp angles of his face. He almost seems identical to the wolf whose head lies in his lap; the same pair of twitching eyes jumping around, the same ears that seem to swivel to the sound of any sound, the same candid smile. But in Scruffy, there is only the innocence of a pup grown large. In Hugo, there is a more mysterious manner that has me on edge.

"Well, if you must know, I'm not quite sure where the term 'steampunk' came from." Hugo's smile is teasing, his eyebrows cocked. "But we had to pick a theme, when we started travelling together. Good business, it is, plus it's fun to pick up outfit extras to switch out and trade. So, when we were picking this theme, I had to take in account Ogden's business, which is blacksmithing. He's a blacksmith, and I'm a mechanic and-slash-or merchant. So we gave birth to 'steampunk.'" He mimes tipping a hat. "Thank you very much."

"I'm still intrigued as to who you're selling things to. There are not that many buyers in the stuff you primarily are marketing." Raffe had not spoken this whole time, and his voice from the shadows of the campfire ring startles me a little, and causes Paige to lift her head in alarm. Ogden jumps to his feet, blushes, and sits back down on his log.

Hugo's eyes twinkle with embers. "Well, now, that's not necessarily true."

"Name species you trade with," orders Raffe. Instead of casting frightening shadows over his face, the firelight barely brushes his skin, a single tongue sweeping down his chiseled neck bones. His eyes glitter with the fire. "Not names, merely… species."

"Seraphim," reports Hugo. "I do business with them. Once, I met one named Seraphina. Best day of my life, it was. Hmm. Hunters, usually. There's always at least one of you angelic bastards on the Earth at any point in time, so I often find myself trading around for sword repairs. Ogden can do those, by the way." He nods at Pooky Bear. "Any damned human. My own species is my favorite, because, let's face it, we've got the perfect balance of assholes and airheads! Oh, and Nephilim, we can't forget them. Heck, I'd be broke without Nephilim. Also, Fallen. I have been –"

"Nephilim?" There is ice in Raffe's voice. "What dealings do you have with Nephilim?"

Ogden's face goes stony, but his eyes reflect the embers more than ever. Hugo glares at Raffe coldly.

"Look, I know you think that you've got Nephilim all wrapped up with a big bow," says Hugo flatly, "but you don't. Everybody knows what you did to the peaceful children on that mountainside. And ever since the first few survivors stumbled away, you've been making enemies that you didn't even know existed."

"Survivors?" Raffe thunders. "Their blood watered the Earth. There were no survivors."

Ogden flinches. Hugo tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed, and I get the feeling that both of their testosterone levels are climaxing.

"Have you ever heard the expression, 'The mutt barks like a dog, howls like a wolf' before, Raphael?" Hugo questions icily. "It means that, as soon as you turn your back, somebody that's been playing the good little pup is going to become the big, bad beast. And that's the secret I'll give to you." Hugo's expression softens slightly. "Look, man, I was brought up on the belief that everyone has good in them. And I'm trying to make that apply to you, too. Archangel Raphael's got a god-awful rep. I don't think you're that bad – you are not insisting for sandals when all I have are boots, for starters. But there are other creatures out there that are a lot more powerful than me and won't give you that benefit of the doubt."

"What kind of creatures?" Raffe practically snarls, tension audible.

Paige shrinks into my lap, clutching at my knee. Scruffy's ears lay back. Ogden slips into the shadows like a ghost.

"To Hell if I know." Hugo waves a hand wearily, massaging Scruffy's ears in comfort. "Look, we'll have a testosterone facedown somewhere else more suitable than in a forest full of ears. Plus, we're scaring Scruffy. He's easily spooked."

"And Paige," I add, glaring at Raffe reproachfully.

From somewhere in the darkness, Ogden grunts.

It's hard not to smile. "Ogden, too."

Raffe's eyes reflect the firelight. He's too distant from the flame's embrace for me to see his expression. "May I speak to you alone, Penryn?"

If I were to judge from tone alone, I'd say that Raffe is mildly pissed.

Gently, I tap Paige's shoulder. Leaning down to her ear, I whisper, "Stay close to the fire, sweetie." Head swiveling so her eyes meet mine, Paige nods in stiff understanding. She draws near to the orange flames, holding her little hands out to the fire.

Rising on stiff legs, I follow Raffe into the darkness. My muscles ache even more than previously; it turns out that riding Scruffy had been much simpler than it'd been illustrated as. You only need shift your weight to guide him, to speed him up or slow him down. I took great pleasure in running his about in circles until darkness fell over the forest while Raffe toured all of Hugo's wonders. But now, after the glorious rides have come to an end, I feel their aching punishments all through my thighs.

"What is it?" I hiss when we near a safe distance.

Raffe whirls about. The moon only illuminates the contours of his hair, the leather of his wings, the gleam of his eyes, and the movement of his lips. "I don't like this, Penryn. I don't like this one bit."

"Neither do I," I admit. "But, even if Hugo seems a little bizarre, I trust Ogden. He's too innocent to travel with a total monster."

"Hugo is hiding something." Raffe's tone is absolute.

"Well, obviously," I mutter. "He stated that part of his profession was keeping secrets. And, if we don't piss him off, he'll keep ours, too. Look, Raffe, if this isn't working out, then we can leave. But I think we should at least stick around until this 'Bryon' man shows up. If he doesn't live up to our expectations, we can leave, immediately."

"Hmm."

"…That's all you've got?"

"For the time being, yes. My wit has gone wherever my alertness has galloped off to."

"Aww," I coo, batting my eyelashes at him. "Is the angely-wangely getting _sweepy_?"

"Your wit is intact, I see, but dull as ever."

"And yours seems to be making a comeback." I smile up at him. "Look, at least we've gotten a nice meal out of this and a nice place to spend the night. You heard Hugo. Scruffy will stand watch, so we can get a good night's rest."

"I'm not sure how much I trust a wolf monster," admits Raffe dubiously, his head turning in the darkness of the night to glance the wolf's way.

I roll my eyes. "You'll get over it. That mutt would never let anything happen to his master, or Ogden. As it so happens, we're travelling with Ogden and Hugo, so we're safe."

"I suppose it hasn't exactly ripped off anyone's head," Raffe acknowledges. "So I suppose he isn't a killer."

"Paranoia is a killer."

"So is recklessness."

I laugh. "Your wit is perfectly fine, it would seem!" I exclaim.

"This isn't wit, it's child's play."

"Well, yeah, Rome wasn't built in a day. You'll have to work up to meet my level." A frost-kissed breeze tousles my hair and whips strands into my mouth. My mood swings abruptly, affected greatly by the chills creeping through the fabric of my shirt and the lust to gather around the fire once more. "We'll figure out Hugo. I'm sure his personality will unravel. It's not like he's threatened you or anything. Just warned you."

"That was a rather belligerent warning," points out Raffe.

"Those were rather belligerent questions," I defend, choosing a neutral standpoint. "Neither of you are at fault so far. Let's just get back to the fire. It's too cold to just sit here and argue. We'll wait for Bryon?" I confirm, looking up at him in question.

After brief hesitation, Raffe nods crisply. "We'll wait for Bryon."

Ogden is back by the fire when we return, lounging upon the log beside Hugo with one hand fondling Scruffy's mane, his gaze once more fixed upon the fire lapping at the starlit sky. He smiles in greeting at me, waving timidly in the night.

"So, what else you wanna know about me?" wonders Hugo, eyes twinkling. "Anything of interest?"

"Scruffy?" I question, easing my weight down on the moist log again. The fire's warmth banishes the icy cold seeping into my skin, replacing it with scalding heat. Paige eases against my leg, and I play with her hair, absently braiding it sloppily.

Hugo beams, and cuddles the wolf to his chest. Scruffy's tail wags, hissing over the dry leaves. Pressing their foreheads together, Hugo softly fondles the thick fur on either side of his wolf's face.

"Honestly, I'm not sure what Scruffy is or how he came to be. I know that after I lost my family and home to a fire, he came to me, and he carried me to Bryon. Scruffy is so goddamned fast, he got there before I bled to death. Ever since, we've been inseparable. It's… like he understands me, you know? Like when I talk to him, he can comfort me by cuddling, or when I'm bummed about losing something, he'll go off and sniff it out with that retarded nose of his. It's almost like he's an apology for that living hell I went through."

"What living hell?" I question curiously.

"Another time, perhaps." Hugo's smile is brittle, and pain is kindled within his gaze.

Ogden grunts, slapping a knee for attention. My eyes flick to him from across the fire. He mimes strumming on a guitar, staring imploringly at Hugo.

Hugo laughs heartily and reaches for something beyond the fire ring, startling Scruffy. The wolf woofs in alert surprise, pulling his head up. Upon realization, Scruffy's tail wags, and he lunges for Hugo's face with a fat pink tongue, smothering his master's laughter. Trying to bat his wolf away, Hugo pushes himself off the log and crashes into the leaves behind it. Scruffy pounces delightedly on Hugo, despite the boy's rabid attempts to shake the pup off.

Ogden shrugs and shakes his head in mock disappointment, the grin spread over his face ruining any attempt at scorn.

Paige's shoulders quiver slightly, and I realize that she's laughing at the boy and his wolf.

* * *

That night, I dream of an angel.

_His wings are broad, muscles pumping with each majestic flap. The golden feathers filter and reflect the brilliant light of the orange sun setting over the snow-capped horizon, each feathertip fringed with pure white. The angel bears no shirt, just simple pants, and those in themselves are threadbare. Against his chest, though, a swaddle of cloth rests, a bundled sling thrown over his head and crossing his body. One hand remains on the swaddle at all times, as if to secure it. _

_I cannot clearly see his face, not well enough to know if he is as handsome as every angel – my dream is blurred, unfocused if the attention is to any face. But I do know that his eyes are gold, and shine like two metal coins in the sunset. His hair is blonde, and maintains the same reflective quality as everything adorning his tanned body. _

_The angel at first dances on sunbeams, and his are movements quick and incisive in the air. But then he levels out over the mountain, coasting over the miles upon miles of leafy green evergreen trees reaching to the sky. It is not until sometime he finds a tree that is sole in its placement, canopy much higher than that of its surrounding duplicates. The angel alights on this tree, this tree located at the edge of a magnificent cliff dropping into more of the dark forests. _

_He folds his metallic wings and rests on a branch, a clear view of the gorgeous setting sun visible from the top limb. The sun is more gold now than orange – the clouds surrounding the sun are so beautiful it's like a painting more than a dream. I can almost taste the humidity in the air, feel the sun on my skin, and smell the scent of pine wafting into the evening sky. _

_But my attention soon returns to the angel as he unfurls something from the swaddle. I become aware of the wailing cries of a baby, a mere infant, originating from that little swaddle. I try to draw closer to the bundle, to see what the angel clutches in the palm of one hand, but the dream is taking me on a journey more than I am conjuring it. _

_I see the angel use one hand to stroke the child I am sure remains inside. For the first time, I hear his voice. It's melodic, like the thrum of a massive bell, or the throaty notes of a cello playing the deepest chords. _

_"Hush," the angel whispers in a language that is not English, and yet easily comprehendible to me and my dream. His golden eyes melt, his curbed expression faltering. He clutches the bundle back against his chest. "Are you cold, little demon spawn? Is that what it is?"_

_I know from experience that angels are warm; they have to be, to navigate high in the chilly air without shirts like they do. The baby soon figures that out as well, silencing without another whimper. The angel's expression only softens further. _

_"Ah. Yes. You are so fragile, little demon spawn." The angel watches the baby in his arms. "I could break your neck right here if I chose. I could save my wife of the torment I know will come from you, little demon."_

_But instead of bawling again, a single hand emerges from the swaddle, so tiny. Even tinier than what an infant would have. The tiny palm lies against the pectoral of the angel, right over the heart. The angel's eyes grow wide, and the baby babbles in unintelligible excitement._

_"Do you hear my heart, little demon? Is that why you are so delighted?" The angel bows his head closer. "I can hear yours. That little thump-thump. Such a fragile thump-thump, isn't it?" The angel pauses. Then, with a hand large enough to crush the child with a single swipe, he touches the child's heart. "Does that please you, little demon spawn?"_

_Sure enough, the baby giggles again. _

_I can't be sure, but it seems that the angel's lips twitch in the slightest whim of a smile. "You will be the death of me," he informs the child, but it only responds by laughing a bit louder, perhaps hearing the vibrations of his magnificent vocals. _

_Throwing back his head of golden hair, the angel laughs alongside his child, thunder greeting zephyr. In the same moment, the last sunlight eases over the horizon, and the moon shines overhead instead like a large blind eye. _

_"Do you know what that is, silly one?" chuckles the angel, jabbing a finger at the sky. "It's called a moon. Not just any moon, but a full moon. Strange things happen on a full moon, little demon. Strange, but not necessarily evil. Do you wish to see?"_

_The infant giggles louder, and the angel seems to take that as consent. Securing the child against his breast once more, the angel glides to the forest floor. As soon as his feet hit the ground, a wave of luminescence passes through the forest, turning the ground black and the trees midnight blue. Each one of the wildflowers blossoming over the leaves glow like stars themselves, and the ones that the infant lands on drift into the sky like bubbles. They float up and up, entrancing both father and child as they disappear behind the clouds. _

_"Do you wish to touch one, little son?" the angel whispers. He takes his child in one hand, holding him out gently, and kneels. More flowers burst into the air, twirling upwards into the sky. The baby's hand flails, by accident brushing more of the blossoms. He giggles as they gently float up and up to greet the moon._

_"They are beautiful, aren't they, silly one?" the angel laughs, clutching his son back to his chest. A heaving sigh echoes through the clearing. "The Lord knows that I should snap your neck, little son. Not only are you a demon, but you are a _runt_. You have no wings. You will not survive the first winter." The angel's fingers trail over his son's face, and his golden eyes are intense. "But your laugh, little son, I cannot take from you. To do so would be an even greatest sin. Your laugh is the most beautiful thing I have ever had the pleasure of hearing."_

_And to this, the little boy laughs._

* * *

I awaken with an ungraceful snort as Paige rolls over to find a more comfortable position, my thoughts still muddy with sleep. In vain, I try to close my eyes, to rejoin the dream I had just exited. But already, the boy's giggled laugh is fading from me, lost among countless other memories and discarded dreams.

To make matters worse, it seems that sleep had deprived me of the chill of the night now nipping bitterly at me. I curl tighter around my baby girl, shivering, trying to shake off Jack Frost's bitter grasp. Although Paige is warm, I am her blanket, like a sleeping cat and its kitten. I alone face the brutal elements.

A warmth does make itself know, a trace of heat against my back. Groggy with sleep, I try to lean into the warmth, seeking protection from the cold. My back brushes two strips of leather, and another grunt informs me that I am no longer the only one awake.

My guilt fully pries open my eyes.

Though I yearn to see who I had disturbed, I cannot turn, cannot risk jarring Paige and all her fragile bruises and stitches. I see Ogden sleeping beside us, clear in my range of vision. He must've crashed not long after Paige and I, though I am sure both of the other males sat by the fire long into the night. The question is merely who I have rudely interrupted.

Craning my neck back, I whisper, "Who is that?"

"Lucifer," mutters a sleepy voice back. "I've come to take you down to Hell with me for touching my wings."

I release a long breath. Of course Raffe wouldn't like Hugo to sleep beside me.

"Sorry," I breathe back, angling my words away from Paige's sensitive ears. Scooting away from him slightly, I coil my legs around Paige, too, trying to seek any warmth I can.

It is quite a while before my teeth chatter, clashing together crudely and slamming into my tongue. They jitter uncontrollably, harmonizing with the shivers racking my body. It's as if sleep had spared me from this cold, like a blanket on a child's bed. But now the blanket has been ripped from me, and I am alone against the Arctic winds.

"You're cold," observes a voice from behind me, his tone awake and concerned.

"No shit, Sherlock," I whisper, squeezing my eyes together.

He falls silent again, perhaps at last falling asleep after my rude intrusion on his heat. Again, I press my head into Paige's hair.

A hand lies over my own, warm fingers lain over each of mine. I start in surprise as a warm, warm body wraps around me like my blanket. He calms my startled response to his heat with a single word in my ear: "Hush."

Raffe's breath tickles my hair. Gently, he lifts my head, and pillows it on one of his massive biceps. His flex and relax of muscle snaps my eyes open and quickens my breathing to a noticeable degree. The hand lain over mine gently pulls Paige closer to me and me closer against the hard muscles of Raffe's stomach and chest. His legs curl into the nook of mine, pressing every inch of his body to mine.

"I can't let the Evil Queen get cold," Raffe explains in a deep whisper, his lips at my ear. A different sort of shiver rattles up my spine. "That would be disastrous."

"How benevolent of you," I whisper back, trying to cock my head to see his face. The chattering of my teeth is persistent, but my shivers are soon vanquished by his heat. "It's like I'm being given the grandest gift in all the world. One had to have put a lot of thought into such a present."

Raffe's smile is tangible against my hair. "But you see, I know exactly what you need, my Queen," he purrs, reverberating voice vibrating against my back. "So it took only the slightest thought to conjure an image of what I might provide for you."

"I suppose that if I am to retain my connection to hellfire, I must keep warm." Almost against my will, I feel my wit dulling, my eyes drooping, and my body warming from head to toe. "You're certainly very toasty."

Raffe chuckles, the warmth of his body not fit for comparison to the warmth in his laugh. "Go to sleep," Raffe urges softly, nuzzling against my hair. "You're tired, and we've got a long day ahead of us. I promise I won't leave you when you shut your eyes."

"Mmmkay." Snuggling against Raffe's chest and bundling Paige to mine, I allow my eyes to droop, shutting to crescents and then closing entirely. Our breathing synchronizes as I lose myself to the dreams returning. My deliriously sleepy mind seems to believe it can hear Raffe chanting in another language, singing me softly to sleep.

* * *

**I had so much fun writing that last bit there. **

**Again, I'm not wholly sure when I'll post this – I'm not a very constant writer, I did all of this in one sitting, but other times I've been hopping around from place to place. **

**To those it concerns: Admittedly, I often lean much more towards fantasy than sci-fi with my writing – I apologize, and I do attempt to work at it. The steampunk aspect was explained here, but I feel that there may be more fantasy/sci-fi questions to come. **

**POLL: Ogden's got a secret! Can anyone figure it out yet?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

I find it amusing that, no matter how much tensions rise in our small group, Scruffy is always there to play the ignorant fool. Hugo laughs quietly to himself, patting his beast on the rump.

"Get up, you drama queen," he scolds playfully, kicking at Scruffy's legs. "If you were watching the road ahead of you, you wouldn't have fallen."

Scruffy bays mournfully, staggering to his feet, coppery eyes wide. Tears glint in the watery surface, and his pathetic whimpers are heartrending. With exaggerated difficulty, the wolf rises, slender legs unfolding. His paws seem to barely rise from the soft dirt coating the path. Ears drooping, Scruffy limps back to the center of the path, plush tail hanging low.

"Aw, buddy," whines Hugo, falling into step beside his beast, "I didn't mean it. You're the best big wolf thing ever."

As soon as the apology leaves Hugo's mouth, I feel the rapid shift of attitude in the wolf's aura. Scruffy swings his head around and slams it into Hugo's chest. He loses his balance with a surprised _oof_, and Scruffy sends the boy tumbling down the very same slope he had tripped over. As Hugo rolls down the slope, desperately grappling for underbrush to hold, the leaves hiss and swirl in his trail. Even Raffe pauses to watch Hugo's humiliation. The wolf's howls acutely resemble the laughter issued from both Ogden's lips as well as my own, and his prancing gait seems to taunt Hugo.

Cursing colorfully but with lively spirit dancing in his eyes, Hugo brushes the leaves from his shoulders and bowls up the hill. Upon realization, Scruffy attempts to dash away with the speed I know he can, but the pack strapped to his saddle hinders any swift retreat. Hugo tackles his wolf, and they both go flying down the other side of the ridge in a bundle of fur and skin.

Ogden shakes his head and assumes the front position, marching ahead with a steady beat. Glancing down at the pack-wolf and the navigator tussling on the ground like children, I follow half a beat after, nudging Paige gently along with me. She smiles at Scruffy and Hugo, but she makes no attempt to join in with their tussling. Pain tightens her expression.

I rub Paige's shoulders worriedly. With much coaxing, she'd taken a few bites of rabbit last night – meager spoonfuls, and each was gulped down quickly, as if the taste was unbearable. So far, she'd been able to keep it down – but her hunger could not have been so easily satisfied. With each minute that passes, each slow minute slipping past like thick honey gradually dribbling down, the more anxious I become to find this Bryon and soon after, a doctor. Not just any doctor, but a doctor who can save Paige, and maybe fix Raffe's wings.

Raffe tails the group, his breath practically at my neck. If anyone should attempt to jump us from behind, I don't think they'll be very pleased with their results. With the mood Hugo has riled him up into, I doubt that he'll be crushed by their appearance.

The alignment before two positions had vacated made considerable sense; first, it's Scruffy, the most qualified to pick out any ambushers or wild animals that might pose a threat – I'd assumed he'd just cower instead of actually attacking, which would be enough incentive that something nasty is lurking, but earlier, he'd viciously gone after a bobcat hiding beneath the brush at the side of the path. The cat's yowls of pain mixing with Scruffy's furious snarls had haunted Paige to the extent that I'd clapped my hands over her ears to muffle it as best possible.

After Scruffy comes Hugo, to guide the wolf and the group. Paige is still sandwiched between Ogden and I – Pooky Bear and Ogden's hammer should be sufficient to put an end to any attack targeting my little girl.

So far, our little trip has been rather uneventful – aside for the scintillating banter of Hugo and Raffe, Hugo and Scruffy, and Hugo and Hugo, nothing had been all that entertaining. So I'd taken it upon myself to admire the California wilderness.

Golden sunlight trickles in through the mottled pattern of leaves and needles swaying overhead. The designs sway hypnotically over the speckled brown and topaz ground at the slightest breeze, trees themselves rocking to the wind's will. Rocks and crisp mountain streams pepper the forest, oftentimes going hand in hand. I don't need to dip a finger into the water to know that it's ice cold, still frozen by the chill of the previous night. More than once, we'd passed overhead of a herd of mule deer, travelling along a ridge or something.

Just once, we'd passed a white creature. Ogden had gotten extremely excited upon seeing it, jabbing a finger at the strange four-legged animal, but, frightened by the sudden movement, it had galloped swiftly off.

"Hey, Ogden?"

The old man cocks his head to me, friendly eyes goading me to continue my inquiry.

"How much longer until we get to rest? I think Paige is hungry." I place a hand over Paige's head, brushing her hair away from her face.

Ogden's eyes soften. He smiles gently at Paige, slowing his walk slightly. Holding true to their word, both he and Hugo had been remarkably accepting of Paige. They'd treated her more civilly than I had, initially. I suppose working with Seraphim and whatever else Hugo had listed softens them slightly to strange creatures, but they hadn't shied from her touch or her company in the slightest. In fact, Hugo had even gone so far as to teach Paige a hand game while Ogden had been preparing rabbit.

Ogden holds up his hands in a fair distance apart, then gestures elaborately towards the horizon. I don't quite perceive his meaning, but I nod my head in understanding all the same.

Raffe's voice sounds from behind me. "If she really is hungry, we can stop now," he offers. "A few miles won't hurt anything."

Ogden flinches. He eyes the surrounding forest and shakes his head rigorously, waving both hands to signify a negative response. The wariness furrowing his brow catches my attention for the first time.

"Why not?" My curiosity is almost as potent an enemy as my bluntness. "I mean, not that I'm being rude and insisting or anything. I'm just wondering what's up with this area."

Ogden lifts his fingers to his mouth like fangs and snarls. His gait turns hulking, and he stomps a few paces before dropping the façade.

"A monster's territory?" verifies Raffe, voice hardening into stone.

Ogden nods his confirmation.

"Then why are Scruffy and Hugo acting like nuts?" I wonder, lip curling. "We should get out of here as soon as possible."

"'Nuts' is harsh." Hugo appears beside me, his lower lip stuck out. "I prefer the term mentally challenged."

I jump out of my skin at his sudden appearance. Judging by the sudden skitter in Raffe's audible footsteps behind me, he'd been taken off guard as well.

"Where did you come from?" I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers. "Weren't you just off doing something?"

"I was," he consents, "but now I'm back. Caught you by surprise, didn't I? Hah. Remember, I taught Dee-Dum everything they know. I'm like Papa Bird, and they're the little chicklets doing their little chicklet things." He blinks, brow scrunching. "Is 'chicklet' a gender specific term? Hope not."

"Oh, well, I'm not sure." From my arms, Paige shakes her head in bafflement. Ogden shrugs. Raffe remains silent, aside from a quiet threat issued not to Hugo, but to Scruffy: "If you lick the side of my face one more time you will wish you were battling a demon…"

"If you lay a hand on him, you will wish you were battling all the angelic armies at once." Hugo's coppery glare is fierce, his teeth peeking through his lips.

"Then tell your mutt to leave me alone."

Hugo holds up his hands. "He got a taste of your holy face this morning, mister, and he got addicted. I almost feel sorry for releasing him, but, you know, I've never heard anyone snore so loud befpre, and you had poor Penryn pinned against you." Hugo's smile is wolfish. "I've never seen someone look so explicitly uncomfortable in my life! So of course I sent Scruffy after you. Nothing else would work."

My face burns, flushing red. Although both Ogden and Hugo have full visibility of my king of blushes, I'm glad that Raffe does not. He, however, does not utter another word. Hugo's coppery red eyes sharpen, his face changing, perhaps to analyze the situation. But before I can catch his calculating expression, it melts away into his usual cheer.

After a minute of awkward silence, Hugo cries, "I know! I must banish this awkward oddness between us! How about a friendly icebreaking game of 'Two Truths and a Lie'?"

"What?" Raffe's tone is flat.

"It's a game," I explain indifferently, glancing back at Raffe. "Basically, it's just as the title says. You give out two truths about yourself and one lie. The goal of the game is to make it clever, so that the other people don't guess the lie. If you're trying to guess, you think long and hard about the person."

"Oh." Raffe falls silent. "I won't disgrace all of you by going first. Instead, Penryn, you go. Should be a nice confidence booster for the rest of us."

"Is that a challenge?" I cock my eyebrows at him. "Well, hmm. Let me think." Even Ogden turns to me expectantly. Rolling my eyes up to the sky, I hum as I scrape up a few thoughts.

"Okay, here goes." With a deep breath, I begin. "I prefer dry spaghetti over cat food, I think that dogs are better than cats" – Scruffy woofs deeply in apparent approval – "and I've seen a total of fifteen female angels in all."

Ogden whistles softly and turns to the trail ahead, skidding down the steep path and disregarding the icebreaking game. He proudly walks several strides ahead of the rest of the group, his attention sliding to the surrounding forests.

Raffe's voice is puzzled. "I'm going to have to go with the first one."

Paige lifts up two fingers with her vote.

"It doesn't seem very likely to me that you'd count the number of female angels you've seen." Hugo smirks confidently. "I'll go with the last option, thanks."

"Well, Hugo knows me better than the angel I've been travelling with for far longer or my little sister." The glower playing teasingly over my face is evenly distributed between the two of them. "Raffe, dry spaghetti will always be better than cat food."

"Yeah, Raffe," Hugo scolds. "Step up to the plate. Learn how to read a woman."

"You're homosexual," Raffe scoffs. "You practically are a woman."

I slam on the brakes, my viselike grip around Paige's hand only tightening. Pivoting on one foot, I twirl to face him, meeting his gaze without quavering. A candid blend of disappointment and rage saturates my tone and narrows my eyes. "Raffe!" I bark sharply.

"Nah, Penryn, it's cool," Hugo dismisses in a nonchalant voice. "It's not like I won't take my revenge."

And he does seem relaxed, aside from the wolfish grin he wears. Beside him, Scruffy bears all his fangs in a smile as well, but his wears the hostility of a threat rather than a joke. Hugo runs his hand through Scruffy's mane in consolation, but the wolf keeps his coppery gaze locked onto Raffe. My alarm bells rattle as the wolf drops his head.

"Excuse him," apologizes Hugo, pulling at Hugo's cheek fur. "He smelled the spike of intense hatred in my veins, and he reacted accordingly. How about I do the next one?"

"Knock yourself out," snaps Raffe. If I were to judge by the acid in his statement alone, I would guess that Raffe's words do not wander far from his true intentions. Stuck between the wolf and demon, I feel vulnerable, and I clutch a little tighter onto Paige's hand.

Hugo scratches his chin, the humor in his eyes returning. "Hmm. Well. My favorite color is blue, for starters. I have slightly telepathic abilities. I have touched Hellfire and survived. Go."

"Hellfire," answers Raffe immediately with grim certainty. "No one can escape that. The only strength of a human is its mind – I don't have a clue what the gifted members of your society may be able to do with telepathy."

Hugo's eyes twinkle, not giving away a scrap of knowledge.

"Telepathy," I estimate. "I've seen enough busts of so-called magic and mumbo jumbo that it's out of the question. As Raffe has just pointed out, humans are pretty goddamn smart – I bet you found a way to stay alive."

Paige holds up a two again.

Ogden grins and turns, holding up a number one.

"Ogden's right!" cries Hugo. "But I suppose that's not fair, because he knows me so well. My favorite color is orange, not blue. I rock the socks off this game. You wanna go next, Raffe?"

"You're telepathic?" I explode, eyes round.

Hugo shrugs. "Slightly. It mostly happens when I'm dreaming – I get little memories of people I've been around for a bit, and beings like Seraphim and occasionally Ogden" – he bows mockingly to the old man – "sometimes talk in my mind. It's pretty neat."

"Hellfire?" wonders Raffe.

Scruffy's lope pauses, his muzzle swinging about to face his master. Hugo's step falters, as if he'd tripped over an imaginary fault in the path. The shaky reediness in his voice is unfamiliar, seemingly unacquainted with Hugo's friendly tones.

"My big brother absorbed it from me." Hugo's voice cracks. "I got burned because I couldn't run fast enough. Damn, Ivan was always so fast. Could've made it out if it hadn't had been for me." His shoulders square, quavering voice solidifying into cold stone. "But the past is the past, and that was a long time ago."

"It would have left you with burns." Raffe's quiet voice is seasoned with fresh respect. "No matter who absorbed it."

"They ache ever night," Hugo acknowledges with a hesitant nod of his head. "But I've gotten used to them. They're nothing like Ogden's burns or anything, so it's cool."

Ogden's shoulders clench slightly, but he raises his head high and scales an upcoming hill.

"Ogden, you're burned?" I question curiously.

"Yep." Hugo nods in confirmation. "Pretty severely, over most of his body. That's why he wears long sleeves and everything. We stick to the cooler portions of the world during the summer so he never has to do anything that makes him uncomfortable."

"That's terrible," I whisper, true sympathy wrenching my heart violently at the thought of burns beneath those steampunk clothes on the innocent old man. "How did it happen?"

Hugo's face scrunches oddly. "Long story short: he collapsed through the roof of a burning house and was trapped inside."

* * *

"Where is he?" Hugo murmurs to Ogden, gaze flicking nervously over the horizon. "Goddamnit, you can't trust Bryon, can you? He's probably frolicking over…"

Hugo breaks off as Ogden jams a finger at the ghost of a white horse galloping through the woods, slender silver limbs quickly hidden by the leafy branches of the forest. A smile tugs at his lips.

"You're right," Hugo whispers. "He's close."

* * *

"Stop yodeling, or whatever sick yowling you're doing," Raffe snaps. His attitude has only deteriorated with each moment spent around the clever Hugo. "You sound like a hollow stick hitting a snake repeatedly."

We'd settled down what seems like hours before, just as the first paint of the evening light began to color the sky. Scruffy had been weary – although the wolf acts spritely beneath the heavy packs, Hugo had explained that his mutt needs as much sleep as anything else, and that standing guard all night doesn't grant him much of it. Paige, too, had started to get anxious, gnashing her teeth together. The metal clicked against the bone in a chilling rhythm, one that had swiftly gained passage to the darker corridors of my morbid imagination.

The area Ogden had selected at the end of the day's march is nearly perfect – I despise the open feel to lounging about in the open woods, and even the high vantage point he'd discovered can't really clear me of any grief. Hugo had erected a rather comfortable habitat, though. The packs of miscellaneous items are strewn about the clearing, forming sofas and benches wherever you may need them, excepting, of course, his stack of valuables. Logs dragged by Raffe from the heart of the woods are angled around a ring of stones and dry wood waiting to be set ablaze the moment the sun dips below the horizon.

Ogden sits hesitantly next to Raffe, casting nervous glances towards the angel. The two of them are both so large they dominate even the largest log. Paige kicks her feet at a stone, volleying it back and forth beside me. Hugo does not sit upon a log, rather resting against it, legs crossed and guitar cradled in his lap. Scruffy sniffs up and down his neck, the wolf's head drowsily lain against the log as a stiff pillow. He seems lulled by Hugo's melody, lids drooping over his eyes. The wolf's tail twitches in the ghost of a content wag.

Hugo grins and strums a teasing chord on his guitar-type thing, the evening light bathing his face in purple. "You're right. It's obviously time for a change in musicians. Since you're so skulky, how about you sing us a song." He twists from the guitar strap, gingerly holding the intricately decorated instrument out to Raffe. "Go ahead, cheer up Paige, put a smile on Penryn's face, let Scruffy bounce to the beat."

Raffe scowls. "Put the guitar away and stop chanting your country diddles."

Hugo's eyebrow cocks. "They're folk songs, lullabies, and camp songs, pigeon-bat. But if you can't comprehend simple music genres, well, your loss. Scruffy can sing better than you, anyway. Ain't that right, Scruffy, boy?"

Adoration consumes Hugo's face, as if he is oblivious to the rising tension that has swamped my lighthearted mood. He rubs a finger beneath Scruffy's chin as the wolf lifts its head, cinnamon fur bouncing as he howls out a single note. The howl is distinctively lupine, a set of wild bays to the dying sun that carry no rhythm or tune. Scruffy's wolfsong echoes off the mountains.

"Shut him up," orders Raffe, back straightening from his miserable slouch. "Everyone can hear us."

"Correction: everyone can hear a wolflike demon scrounging rabidly through the woods, howling to the moon with its thirst for blood." Hugo grins broadly. "I have no idea how he can be so scary. I mean, sure, some other wolves are scary, but not that scary."

Scruffy lets loose a low yowl that turns into a playful growl. Wet nose quivering, he first nuzzles Hugo's wild hair and then nips at a strand, pulling in a jibe to gain Hugo's attention. Responding by stroking Scruffy's head calmly, Hugo rocks his companion from side to side.

"Silly Scruffy," he murmurs. "You probably think you can talk, don't you?"

A laugh blossoms from somewhere hidden within at Scruffy's reaction. "That is the most indignant looking wolf I've ever seen in my life."

Scruffy's gaze turns to me, all thoughts of slumber gone. He growls in a challenge and then mewls out something that sounds vaguely like a baby's bawl.

"Not bad," estimates Hugo, leaning away from his pet to study him. "Sounded a bit like a human. I'll give it a five out of ten. But here's the question: can Penryn trump the score?"

Scruffy yips in defiance, rolling his eyes madly in protest with his score. But he, too, stares at me curiously. Teasing joy glints in Hugo's eyes. Childish delight consumes Ogden's face, bringing his swollen features into an expression of joyous expectation. Raffe's disapproval is palpable in the air. Paige, though, claps her hands and smiles at me, her lips pinching in the pain.

"Let me get this straight," I verify, glaring at Hugo. Hope blossoms in my chest, a prayer that my negativity will crush this competition. "You want me to bark like a dog?"

Scruffy woofs as an example, nodding in harmony with Hugo.

My cheeks flush bright red. Hesitation makes the moment longer, draws more attention to me. The arrogance in Raffe's gaze is nearly as powerful as Paige's round, round eyes. She clutches at my knee, tilting her head to one side and smiling in encouragement.

"I'm going to hate myself," I sigh, but, without pause, I give my best bark.

For a moment, there's painful silence.

Scruffy throws up his head in a high-pitched howl. He rises from the earth, staggering about drunkenly, nearly smashing into Hugo's pile of breakables. His howls of amusement seem to chorus through the woods like an entire pack of wolves. Ogden, who'd raised his hands and clapped a single beat, pauses and furrows his brow.

"I didn't think it was that bad," states Hugo mildly, watching as his mutt nearly thuds into a tree. "Apparently, you've cussed in Wolf or something, though. Wouldn't worry about it too much."

Scruffy's chuckles are ended rather abruptly by a howl, echoing off the snow-capped mountains eerily. He stiffens, ears swiveling in its direction and nostrils flaring, eyes wide with anticipation. The wolf's legs quiver slightly. The camp falls still until the high, crystalline note sailing above the trees cuts off.

"What was that?" growls Raffe, his voice like a peal of thunder.

"Just Scruffy's girlfriend," Hugo laughs, waving it aside. "Now, Jane, as we call her, she's one to look out for. She doesn't have his long legs, but wings – kinda like an angel wolf. But she doesn't ever, ever side with angels. That reminds me – Raffe, if you see a white figure loping through the woods, don't even give Jane an inkling that you're angelic and not fallen."

"You're telling me Scruffy's got a girlfriend," I scoff, shaking my head. "He's a wolf."

Hugo grins. "I suppose he likes it doggy style, then." Catching my angry glance towards Paige and the daggers in my gaze as it fixes on him, he hurriedly changes the subject, rising from the log and turning to Hugo.

"Now, buddy, remember," Hugo lectures importantly, waggling a finger at the wolf, "be a gentleman. Nobody likes a Butler."

"What?" I whisper to Ogden. He shrugs.

"Also, if you kiss her for the first time, do not, I repeat, _do not_, look her in the eyes and tell her that you don't even like her." Hugo slams his finger twice into Scruffy's nose. "To tell her that you don't like her is destroying all your chances. You'll probably create an enemy out of some badass grandma or uncle or something hanging around in the shadows. Now, get out of here!"

My knees feel weak; instantly, I'm grateful for the log Raffe had pulled up. Heat, awful heat, flushes my cheeks. My hand knots in Paige's shirt, clenching painfully, nails biting through the fabric and into my palm. "How do you know that?" I whisper, not trusting myself a glance in Raffe's direction, though I do feel his gaze land upon me several times.

Initially, Hugo ignores the question, slapping Scruffy's rear to quicken his exit, adding a sexual jeer as the wolf hurriedly lopes into the shadows of the darkening dusky forest. But when he turns to me, his smile is sly as the fox.

"I didn't." He saunters over to the log, crossing his legs and cradling that steampunk guitar of his. One hand weaving over the strings, he glances up at me through his lashes. "I've only heard rumors, heard things one angel thought he'd seen, something a kitchen staff member witness, a snippet of a conversation riding on the ears of a slut. It's only up to the clever monkey to piece it all together, to create a masterpiece with the puzzle."

"How many times have you manipulated us into giving you an answer?" demands Raffe, the brutal intelligence of a warrior chiseling his face into dark, stony rage.

Hugo's eyes roll up to the ceiling, mouthing numbers. The clever dance of the flecks in his irises displays his inner emotion. "Not that many. There's not much I care to know from you two, honestly. The fewer people that are aware of Penryn's plan to save the world, the better. The fewer people around that are connected to Raffe's inexplicable wing dilemma, the better. But I do love myself a good case of gossip." He winks, lashes brushing his cheekbones. "And I have not thus far been disappointed."

* * *

**Bum bum bum. **

**First thing's first: I'm going on a camping trip this weekend, which means I won't be uploading any chapters, or even working on writing. It also means that I've had limited time to polish this chapter – there may be a few errors or odd sentences flows, but I wanted to get it out before I left. I love getting your reviews, so, if anything, only write more of them while I'm gone! Even if I don't respond in any way, I do read them and appreciate each one. **

**POLL: Bryon has been mentioned sparingly… but he's about to saunter up to bat. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

"What are you still doing up?" I whisper over the hissing snarls of the dying fire. Clutching one of Scruffy's smelly blankets tighter around me as barrier against the chill of night, I inch closer to the dying embers.

Hugo's eyes drift up to mine, gradually leaving the sketchpad he cradles on one knee. The metallic rasp of pencil lead over the paper pauses. Tilting his head to one side, he scoots over, allowing room on the log.

"Scruffy's still gone, which means we have no sentry," he whispers. "I heard you writhing over there. It sounded like a nightmare. If you're up, you might as well keep warm." He pats the extra space on his seat.

Despite his invitation, I sit down on the log opposite Hugo. Initially, he watches me, opalescent eyes dancing with the gentle flicker of the flame. But then his dark head bows back over his sketchpad once more, the whisper of a pencil echoing through the darkness of the night.

"What are you drawing?" I wonder, yawning monstrously. "And can you even see this late at night?"

"Not really," he answers truthfully, chuckle hidden in the words. "But I love to draw, all the same. It'll look interesting in the morning, but late-night thoughts are the best thoughts, right?"

"Mmm," I mumble, watching an ember drift from the fire and into the starry night's arms. "I'm not thinking about much at the moment."

"Well, that's because you don't know how to think. Embrace the fatigue. Allow it to sharpen your tongue and clear your mind. You are one with the droopy eyes."

After a moment of silence, I sigh in surrender. "You're bizarre."

"Is that what it is?" Hugo sobers abruptly, the pencil sagging in his hands, eyes staring imploringly into mine. "Why I'm so unlikeable, I mean?"

"What?" The misery gnawing at his coppery eyes has me on guard; it doesn't take an expert to spot someone under the influence of depression, but it does take one to deal with one gently – my own experience with the mental illness has sharpened my finesse on the subject. "Why?"

Hugo chuckles darkly, balancing the sketchpad on the log beside him. Leaning forward, he draws closer to the flame's heat. "Don't coddle me. I know I'm not liked, and I know I'll never be. It's what'll make me such a good martyr. I just… want to know what it is."

"You are liked," I scoff bluntly, looking deep into the heart of the flame as I grope for words. "I don't particularly trust you, but you have the makes of an ally."

"Funny, it's usually the other way around," Hugo mutters with a somber smirk.

"Ogden sticks around you. I mean, call me crazy, but he seems to like you a lot."

"We have been through a lot together, yes," Hugo acknowledges. His tone is warm upon regarding the older companion. "He and Bryon have been together since they were infants, but with all his traveling, Bryon is best alone. I like companionship, even from a mute."

"And Scruffy definitely loves you. All you need is a giant wolf sticking around to show that you've got likeable qualities."

"You're right." He brightens considerably at the mention of his pet, eyes softening like butter melting before the fire. "It's always been Scruffy and I, hasn't it? Me and Scruffy against the world. The day he bites the dust is the day I follow."

"That's the spirit," I cajole, smiling with relief.

"So, my only true friends are a mute and a giant friendly wolf, and my boyfriend is a demon from Hell." Hugo purses his lips and cocks his head. "Not exactly a confidence builder, but you've got to start somewhere, right?"

"Wait… what?"

"Oh, yeah, forgot to mention that." A grin as wide as the sea breaks out over his face. Adoration would be a simplification of the tender emotions shimmering in Hugo's reddish eyes. "My boyfriend is a fallen angel. He fell for me. And for his homosexuality. For his homosexuality, towards me. I love him more than life itself."

"Ah." Awkwardly, my gaze roams to the dancing tendrils of fire. "Oh."

Hugo's laugh is strange, with a deep tone I've never heard from him before. "I just get sketchier and sketchier to you, don't I?" he chuckles, eyebrows cocked. "Some people say that there's such thing as good and evil in this world. But I don't think so. There's never all good in a creature that walks in light, and never all bad in those that dwell below. I don't bother with all those preliminaries of good and bad. I'm a wild card. Not the sun or the moon, but the light in between. I've got my own agenda, and I play by my own rules. Might as well let them know right-up. But here's the question." With a smile, he rises from his seat on the log. "Does that make me good or does that make me evil?"

I watch with a deadpanned expression as he walks off, the sharp contours of his back fading into the darkness of the surrounding woods. Just before he completely disappears from my line of sight, Hugo pauses, cinnamon hair turned silver by the moon's eye hanging above the trees.

"I take back what I said about nobody being evil, or nobody being good," he calls softly. "Bryon is most definitely a sheep in wolf's clothing. And your mother's demon scares the hell out of me."

Then, like a ghost, Hugo is gone.

* * *

"It's strange," says Raffe from behind me, his voice banishing the serene silence and sending chills up my back. "Yesterday, you could do nothing but speak, and now you're quiet and submissive."

"Not submissive," corrects Hugo distractedly, fingers lazily tapping over the touchpad of his sleek silver laptop. "Merely focused. And cozy."

"You have been awfully quiet," I observe innocuously. "I still don't really understand how you're getting Wi-Fi on that thing."

"I've already told you." Hugo rolls his eyes. "This laptop's connected to a satellite, so I get it anywhere, and it's untouched by the apocalypse. No matter how much those angelic bastards pretend to be immortal, space is lethal to everybody. My Wi-Fi is strong no matter where I wander."

"What are you even doing?" I inquire, gently nudging Paige along. "Checking your emails? Who is still sending emails?"

"The amount of spam has doubled, actually," reports Hugo mischievously, eyes twinkling gregariously. "Except now all the titles are: Angels In Your Town? Get Magic Amulets Today! Hilarious. Hey, someone might be making some sort of a profit off this. I hear Verizon's still in business, like some sort of crazy product placement ad…"

Hugo rocks to the beat of Scruffy's rhythmic footsteps, his cradle in the bags of supplies and various knick-knacks almost a nest. His eyes are opposite of Scruffy's; it's a defense system, with the wolf facing one direction and the boy facing the other. Scruffy's neck is arched to create a pleasant seat for Hugo, and Hugo himself is massaging up and down Scruffy's sore muscles with his spare hand in payment. Before he'd been on the computer, he'd been sketching tranquilly, and before that, he'd been strumming experimentally on his guitar.

"What are you doing on there?" interrogates Raffe, tone sharp as a blade.

"Well, you're a nosey pigeon-bat, aren't you? If you must know, I'm looking into your own holy Messenger and his sudden death. New evidence has come to light, and so they came to me."

"What evidence?" Raffe's eyes narrow, the blue ice in buried there honing. "And why is a monkey interested in that?"

"Secret." Hugo taps his finger to his lips. "That's the thing, because, although this new evidence cleared the She Wolf off the list of suspects as well as Lion, you still have a position there. There's not a whole lot of reasons that I know of – this apocalypse is obviously not helping you any – but there's a lot of evidence that could mean that it was another angel that managed to get ahold of a gun. An angel that would be willing to endanger its sacred hands by touching that extremely effective weapon is hard to find. Hard, but not impossible. So, they turned to me."

"An angel?" The steel in my voice shields bitter rage. "You're telling me this was even started by an angel?"

"Maybe." Hugo pinches at his lip. "I honestly was leaning towards something that had to do with She Wolf. But now, I'm sure it's not her or her husband. I don't know, I'll have to research it more."

"Why are you in charge of this?" inquires Raffe with a divisive expression as cold as the winter wind. "Why not some other wiser monkey?"

"Because I'm intelligent. I'm clever. Sherlock Holmes was derived from all this, baby. Because I know how people think. How to get a person to admit something. How to know when someone is lying, and when someone knows something that I don't. I can successfully cross your name off my list now."

Raffe's expression blackens. The taut muscles in his shoulders tighten further, his jaw clenching. Blue murder dances in his eyes. If Pooky Bear had still been hanging at his hip, I daresay Hugo wouldn't be at his leisure for very long. As it is, his veined hands curl into fists. Ogden's allaying glance back at me does little to calm Raffe. With each step, Paige's teeth gnash together louder. The metallic clicking of teeth grates on my nerves.

"So," I attempt, trying at a new subject, "when are we going to meet this Bryon?"

"Well," judges Hugo with an affable smile in my direction, "he disclosed his location in the email with all the information about Gabriel, so I can gauge that we'll see him by the time the sun sets tonight. It's about… four o'clock, is it, Ogden? Ogden says yep. Probably soon, then, assuming he doesn't run into any of Raffe's hellions again."

Raffe's lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. To assuage the situation once more, I hurriedly question, "Any tips about interacting with Bryon? Personality pointers?"

Hugo's brow scrunches. He tips his head up to the sun dappling through the canopy, watching the trees for a few moments. "Nothing that I really can think of," he decides. "I mean, he's badass to the core, but you wouldn't guess that at first glance. I've seen him get speared in the chest with an angel sword before and keep fighting. Almost cost him his life. Mostly, he's pleasant and polite. He used to absolutely loath you, Raphael – can I call you Raffe, or is that just a Penryn thing?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, shooting Hugo a glare that could crumble civilizations.

"Okay then, you're Pigeon-Bat now and forever. Anyway, he used to hate Pigeon-Bat growing up, apparently. I mean, he had a rough childhood. Always angry, they say, looking for someone to blame. But he's different now. He was reunited with his father, and… he realized that life was beautiful again, I guess. Seriously, he's a gentle giant. I've seen him tame Nephilim in one night. It's crazy, the effect he has. I've only seen him truly angry a few times... it's pretty impressive."

Ogden grunts. Hugo twists awkwardly around in his nest, facing Ogden quizzically. The old man releases a cacophony of clashing notes, uniting his hands in the legendary choir pose.

Hugo slaps his forehead, collapsing back onto Scruffy. "How could I forget? He's got the most beautiful voice ever. Like, talking, it's like chords on the piano and a hum of the cello and the rumble of drums. But when he sings…" Hugo rests head against Scruffy's neck and whistles. "He's got a human sounding singing voice, if you know what I mean. Sharp as a razor and deep, oh so deep. Lovely voice."

Raffe's tone is smug, acutely accompanying his algid grin. "A human's voice is meek compared to the voice of any angel."

"No, it isn't," disagrees Hugo with a roll of his eyes. "No offense, Pigeon-Bat, but you angels pretty much sound the same singing, except for pitch differences. Humans have a unique voice. No one sounds quite the same. And, if you must know, Bryon's not human."

Ogden nods in conformation. With a smile, he tilts his head towards Hugo, refocusing my attention.

"Of course, you'll rarely get him to sing anything but the Spirit soundtrack," Hugo continues, eyes sparkling. "You know, Spirit: Stallion of the Cima – Cina – oh, screw it. Stallion of the Cinnamon for all I care. Ever listened to it?" A queer glaze frosts his coppery eyes, and, cocking his head, he watches Paige for a few steps. "Anyway, that was back when he was basically THE children entertainment industry and had his fingers in all those pies. Now he just listens to the music. Knows everything by heart."

His words are greeted with my frown. "I think I've watched that before," I acknowledge after a second's pause. "My mom bought it as soon as it came out, I think. She would hum it all to herself as she worked around the house."

Hugo nods. "Catchy music. He wrote most of it, despite what that 'Hans Zimmer' will have you thinking. It's been around for centuries, pretty much – he just turned it into a soundtrack and got people to sing it and stuff. Great movie, too. Back in the Golden Age, you know?"

"I suppose. The Evil Queens back then were definitely much more interesting."

Raffe's lips quirk slightly. His wings perk within a stride.

"Inside joke," guesses Hugo, sighing melodramatically. Rolling back against Scruffy, he positions the laptop once more and focuses on the glowing screen. "Right, well, I'll leave you to it."

The wind whips through the woods, toying with my hair and whispering benignly in my ears. Sharp and woody, the scent of the pine forest fills my nostrils, a tangent fragrance softened by the tender tickle of wildflowers. To miss the opportunity would be unwise – instead, I sniff deeply, closing my eyes to relish the scent. It leaves the air in its wake stagnant, with just an echo of the whispered laughter it provided whistling in my ear.

"This place is magical," I breathe to myself, opening my eyes.

"You're not wrong," murmurs Raffe, neck craned to gaze up at the sky. His blue eyes shift colors beneath the soft golden sunlight, mottling in navy and cornflower.

With a surreptitious glance towards Hugo, who only grows further from us, I turn to Raffe. "I'm not sure how long it's going to be until Paige needs to eat again," I whisper, shoving as much concern as possible into the soft phrase.

Blue ice burns. The full power of Raffe's gaze smashes into me. "How long did she last without food last time?" The soft husk he speaks with is difficult to pick up above the hollow howl of the wind through the trees.

A shrug is all I can answer with. "Not long. And then she nearly ripped a person to bits."

Raffe lets out a long breath, raking a hand through his black hair. It is impossible not to notice the way he dishevels the ebony locks, nor to long to correct their position and smooth his hair back into place. "I'm not sure what we'll do. For the time being, let's focus on getting out of this forest. If worst should come to worst, we can always point her in the direction of that insufferable monkey."

"He's not a monkey," I mutter.

Raffe bites his lip irascibly, eyes dubious. But before a word of scoff can escape him, Hugo dismounts Scruffy. My gaze is already drawn before his finger lands lightly upon his pink lips, before he cautions us to the ground. Ogden is already crouching, gesturing ahead of him in explanation. A thunder of first fear then anger rumbles over me as I crouch, squinting to catch a glimpse of what had caught their attention. Scruffy stalks off, ears bent.

Hugo's lips are practically at my ear. "Bryon and I have this thing going where we try to sneak up on one another. Ogden's just spotted him. Be extremely quiet, please. You too, Pigeon-Bat. He's up by that stream over there, in the bank, washing his face. Back to us. Too good an opportunity to miss."

I sigh through the nose, but my gaze still roams the brush. A distant thunder of water smashing mercilessly against stone roars to life with my awareness. I can see the waterfall now that I know what to look for – diamond water spilling over rocks, frothing at the air and spitting. I assume the creek passes the trail ahead. Though I may lean and squint, I can't see beyond a few meters before the trail fades into brush.

Ogden creeps into the bushes, snagging Paige's hand and gently tugging her along with him, but quickly ushers Raffe and I after Hugo. Beside me, Raffe is silent, and ahead of me, Hugo is a ghost. My only consolation is that this area is primarily blanketed with pine needles to muffle the thud of my footsteps. Curiosity mounts as we slink around thornbushes and the stream comes into view.

Diaphanous sunlight filters through, brighter over the waters than in most areas. My eyes widen at the sight of a shirtless male bent over the serene waters, his broad back carved by muscles and tanned into a golden brown. Though I cannot see his face, I hear the tinkle of water as he washes his arms and know the balanced grace he holds himself with, even bent over the stream. A long, wooden staff without any decoration sits on the bank beside him, as well as what appears to be a long cloak and a shirt.

At the sight of him, Pooky Bear itches with rage. Sharp, painful tingles run up and down my arm until I release her hilt, breaking our connection, and let her swing freely at my hip. I cast a queer glance in the sword's direction. Her anger had been flavored with spiteful recognition.

Hugo signals us to pause. I crouch at the edge of a bush. Raffe shadows him a few more steps than I, eventually coming to a halt at the base of a tree. Hugo creeps onward like a cat on the hunt.

When mere feet separate Hugo from the man, he lifts his head, spilling water back into the creek.

A voice like a thousand church bells ringing in unison calls, "If it hadn't been for Scruffy, you probably would've won this round."

Hugo launches into a colorful string of curses. "Where is that lousy mutt?" he snarls, rising from his crouch moodily and signaling us up.

"Down the stream a bit, playing in the rapids. You might want to go salvage your packs before it's all washed away." His melodic voice sends a shiver down my back – there was no poetry in Hugo's description, only cold, hard truth. The chords are warm and inviting, laughter hidden in each word.

Hugo sighs. "And I thought for sure…"

"You did almost have me." The man pushes up from the riverbed, rising to an intimidating height. His powerful shoulders square, the trenches and ridges of profound muscle mass rippling. Towering over Hugo, he turns, allowing me a full view of the giant for the first time. "Who are your friends, Hugo? Oh – Raphael! It's been a long time! And you must be Ms. Young! Hmm. I wish I was wearing something a little more presentable… but then again, I wouldn't be nearly as handsome with a shirt on, would I?"

My eyes grow round at the sight of him. "Are you Bryon?" I whisper.

The man is tall, his height even greater than that of Raffe's. His body is broad and muscled, everything proud and firm. His six-pack is intact, accompanies by firm pecs, swollen biceps, a sloping V shape, and prominent neck bones. Unlike Raffe's Adonis-like beauty, there is nothing supernaturally godlike about his handsome face. Godlike in a human perspective he is, though. Instead of angelic, he reminds me more of a rough woodsman beauty – tough, sharp, and strong. His dark eyes shimmer in the sunlight. His skin is bronze with a tan. The remnants of a beard speckle his chin and neck, and dark, chocolaty brown hair hangs around his face. His smile is gentle, soft as silk – welcoming, friendly. Though not outrageously young, the man holds an older note about him, his eyes much older and wiser than ones that belong to someone in their lower thirties.

"I'm Bryon, yes," he answers. "Has Hugo already spilled every trivia fact there is to know about me, or has he left out one or two?"

As Bryon turns to face Hugo, the light trickling down from between the trees casts over his face, beaming into his eyes. And, in that slight second, they gleam. Not sparkle or glitter as a normal man's eyes would do, but _gleam_. It is as if the two dark irises had been infused with metallic bronze, only visible in the bright light – now, though, that he is in the sun, I can still see a hint of the bronze, coiling around his pupils.

"I am sorry that I happened to notice Scruffy," he apologizes, smile fading at the sight of Hugo's grumpiness. "Your skill is quite extraordinary. Much better than I ever did, even when I was the correct size to be snooping about."

"Oh, yeah." Hugo beams at Bryon broadly. "That's right. You used to be a midget."

"Not even up to my father's knee," Bryon chuckles. He shakes his head, eyes glinting each time the sunlight is strong. "The world was so massive back then. It still is, but less so, if you understand my meaning." His gaze turns back to me, apparently now noticing my unceasing gawk of shock. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude," he apologizes candidly. "Ms. Young, is something wrong? Come out, into the light. I don't bite. I might nibble a little, but I promise, no biting." He smiles warmly with pearly white teeth. "If there is something wrong, let me know, and I'll bash its head in."

"She's fine," Raffe snaps, stalking up to Bryon with a few testy glares my direction. His sulky voice jars me back to reality, causing my eyes to clash against his. Guilt tangles my stomach upon realizing that he's probably been watching me gawp open-mouth at Bryon.

"Ah, Wrath of God." Respect constructs behind those bronze eyes, despite his teasing tone. Bryon bows crisply. "Many apologies that you caught me without a shirt. You angels are awfully picky about silly things like being out-muscled."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," mutters Raffe darkly. His critical gaze sweeps up and down Bryon. "Where are your supplies? Your weapons? Is this all you carry?"

Bryon shrugs, his amiable behavior still not faltering. "That staff is the closest thing I ever need come to a weapon. It's been my trusty companion these long years. I always have a way of finding food, so it's never been much of an issue."

"Everyone needs supplies," I decide, rising from my crouch at long last. Banishing the heated blush from my cheeks, I join the giants in their discussion. "It doesn't make much sense that you need none."

Bryon tips his head to me respectfully. "I don't eat as often as humans or angels do. Don't need as many calories. So it doesn't make much sense to lug food around."

"What are you if you're not a human?" My eyes narrow skeptically.

An embarrassed smile plays over Bryon's face, but I am more distracted by something behind him. As Bryon explains ("Sorry, but that's just the slightest bit private, something that I don't really enjoy spreading around much.") Ogden creeps up from the bushes on the opposite side of the creek. I try to make my observations stealthy, keeping my gaze locked on Bryon. But, as he skips over the stream, I can't help but smirking.

With a frown, Bryon trails off. He tilts his head to one side, puzzled. "What are you laughing –" He cuts off with a strangled mewl, jumping away from the place where Ogden had gingerly tapped him. Backing up against the stream, he scowls at Ogden.

"Oh, you tricky thing," Bryon growls, shaking a finger at the delighted Ogden. "Was this the plan all along?"

"Yup," accedes Hugo with a beatific grin. "I got you! Oh, God, your face… I've never heard you make a noise like that before, most of the time you've got this voice that can melt butter, and then all of the sudden: Cat Mode. But the point of the matter is that I'm winning. I beat you."

Bryon laughs, the sound rolling like a peal of thunder. "That you did, my friend. That you – Ow!" His voice is abruptly sharp, and the exclamation is swiftly tailed by a demonic growl. Wincing and hissing softly beneath his breath, Bryon turns on heel. My gasp of horror is the loudest sound aside from Paige's vicious snarls as she gulps down the strip of dripping flesh.

A raw red cut slices into Bryon's back, dribbling crimson blood like a hellborn waterfall. The wound is deep and incisive, as if someone had taken a cookie-cutter mold and sank it into his flesh. Despite the large hunk of flesh she'd removed from Bryon's back, Paige still growls, her starving eyes darting around feverishly. Gnashing together metallically, Paige gulps down the meat without a second thought.

"How rude of me." Bryon kneels down, coming face to face with my demonic sister. His height bows before the girl, large muscles seemingly relaxing. The power in his voice is subdued, more a lullaby than a madrigal. "I never said hello to you, did I? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Bryon, quite possibly the coolest fellow you'll ever meet. What's your name?"

Paige blinks after swallowing down Bryon's flesh, snarl catching in her throat. Her eyes grow round as mine did, but for a different reason entirely. She touches a finger to her lips brokenly, feeling the crimson blood there. A high cry of mourning escapes her lips, and horrified tears well in her eyes.

Raffe is silent beside me, and Ogden watches with concern. Hugo throws an arm out to pause my protective pounce towards her. "Let him have his way with her," he whispers in my ear. "You'll be surprised."

"Don't cry," whispers Bryon, ignoring both me and Hugo. His voice is thick, as if, he, too, is about to burst into tears at the sight of my little sister. He lifts a hand as an offering towards her, palm open and fingers outstretched. "Please, I just want to know your name."

My baby girl whimpers out something strangled and weak, sounding more like a sob than a word.

"Paige?" Bryon's voice takes on a marveling note. "I do love that name. My niece's name is Paige. She has the most beautiful eyes. Your eyes, too, are beautiful. Can I see them?"

Slowly, Paige's gaze slides up to meet his. Her blood-red lips quiver, but she no longer seems quite as unstable – instead, there is an avid curiosity in this creature that is treating her civilly and attempting to carry out a conversation with a beast as wretched as her.

"Ah, yes." Bryon smiles. "Beautiful. I bet you could be a model, if you'd like. I know some people. Are you into that kind of stuff? Modelling, I mean?"

Paige hurriedly shakes her head, whipping it to and fro. A ruby droplet cascades down her chin, landing in the diamond stream. Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, raising both hands to the sky in a gesture of exasperation.

"I'll let you in on a secret" – Bryon leans closer, his voice lowering – "I don't really like it, either. But nobody can know that, it might hurt their feelings. I can trust you, right?"

After leaning closer to him as well, Paige recoils, alarm flashing in her eyes. Though initially disturbed by the thought of keeping anything from anyone, Paige mouths the word _yes_, sneaking furtive glances towards me. Stiffly, she waves a hand towards the audience. Upon her prompting, Bryon sneaks a glance behind him, winking once for our eyes solely.

"They can't know," he whispers, inching closer to her. "Do you think they heard me? They might tell everyone! Ogden in particular is pretty sketchy, you never know what he might do… and Raphael's been giving me the stinkeye for quite some time now…"

"That only causes him to glare harder," advises Hugo in a soft tone of voice. Whittling away at a piece of wood with a long knife, he jerks a thumb towards Raffe. "See?"

Indeed, Raffe's glower is a sight to behold.

"Well, there goes my secret." Bryon lifts his hands in surrender, sticking out his lower lip. "Poof. Come on, Penryn, couldn't you have kept a secret?" Bryon sighs in exasperation, and then laughs heartily as Paige waggles her finger at me. "But you know what? I'm hungry. Is anyone else hungry?"

Hugo nods vigorously, patting his stomach. Ogden burps, patting his potbelly and smiling. My initial surprise is quickly replaced by a smile and a nod. Paige lifts her hand in compliment, vying for Bryon's attention.

"Yeah, I thought you might be hungry. Do you want to come eat something with me? I know that normal stuff may taste awful" – he wrinkles his nose – "but I know what doesn't. Will you, Paige Young, accompany me to go find something absolutely positively exquisite to eat?" He offers her his hand, extending it with a friendly smile.

Paige doesn't pause. Her fingers slip through his, weaving together. Tentatively, she smiles weakly at him, before the slight expression is lost to her pain. Bryon smiles back down at her, bronze eyes shining as bright as suns. Like a thick tower being built brick by brick to the sky, Bryon unfolds slowly. After a few words, he slings the shirt and the long brown cloak over a shoulder and grasps his polished wooden staff in his free hand.

Together, the little she-demon and the gentle giant lumber off. Bryon speaking patiently to Paige can be heard as the two go deeper into the woods. Glancing once behind him, Bryon signals us to move onward with a wave of his staff.

"See what I mean?" Hugo grins devilishly at me as he hops over the stream, striking a boot against the crystalline water. The droplets splatter against the opposite creekbed. "He's awesome."

"I don't know," mutters Raffe skeptically as he crosses the stream with a single stride. "Something about him seems awfully familiar…"

"What will he feed her?" I question intensely, following Hugo closely, my feet a half-step behind his. My gaze is acutely trained on Bryon's back, and the rapidly healing cut my sister had made. "He's not going to give her human flesh, is he?"

"No way." Hugo's eyes widen, mouth twisting with disgust. The appalled tone is his voice is fletched with an offended quality. "That's _nasty_. Nah, he'll give her some veal or something that tastes a bit like human flesh. If she needs more prompting, he'll coax her with a bit of his own blood, because he heals so frigging fast. Then, slowly, he'll wean her off of that and onto something that's easier to find, like steak. Then he'll go to meat, _period_, and then… well, you'll have to see. Bryon's done this before, you know."

"I don't trust him." Raffe's voice is certain on the subject, his mouth straight and his face hostile.

Hugo waves a hand dismissively, coppery eyes alit with dancing flames of dislike. "I don't trust _you_. Now, let's get moving, before they run off without us, eh?"

"Hear that, Paige?" cries Bryon from ahead. "I'm mildly certain it was a challenge!"

* * *

**I really don't have any comment. **

**POLL: Bryon. Thoughts…?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

"He's always angry," critiques Bryon with a dubious expression, glancing towards Hugo. Long lashes bat as his cheeks with each blink. "You have Raphael's face down, but he always seems ticked at something, no matter which angle you draw him from. A face is supposed to display multiple expressions, not just one. Ameliorate that."

"You've been drawing pictures of me?" Raffe asks, voice deadly quiet and cold as ice.

Ignoring him, Hugo waves his hand around in the air. "Well, that's all that bastard ever looks like! Even when he's resting, he looks pissed at everyone and everything. If I had a word to describe Pigeon-Bat, it'd be pissed. There is this one. I caught him staring at Penryn once."

He slips a finger into the sketchbook, flipping to the right page. Proudly smoothing it out, Hugo gestures confidently towards the sketch, disregarding both Raffe's scowl and my scarlet blush.

Staring with wide bronze eyes and fanning lashes, Bryon slowly brings his hand up for a facepalm. In a quiet whisper that sounds as if he is stifling laughter, Bryon says, "He's angry in this picture, too."

"No," corrects Hugo feistily. Jabbing a finger at the picture of Raffe, he glances testily up at Bryon. "Look at his eyes! The eyes are the window to the soul! They're soft, soft and gentle. I used a soft-tipped pencil."

Bryon's deep sigh is like two heavy stones slowly rumbling against one another. "So, say Raphael only shows emotions through the eyes, which is not far from the truth. All of your other pictures have cold, angry eyes. There is no intelligence or thoughts behind the expression."

"I drew what I saw."

Bat wings propelling him off the ground, Raffe shoots from his rest, rising to his full height. In any other company, it would be a mighty sight – the powerful archangel splaying his demonic wings wide, rage sharpening his features and balling his fist, striding with purpose and lethal focus. His blue eyes are two sheets of ice. The leathery blanket of black frames his caramel skin, like the velvet cape in a regal king's uniform.

But here, amidst the old man's calloused hands and the battle-weary figure he walks with, amidst the massive wolf with slender legs and a long red tongue drooping through ivory fangs, amidst the company of the madman that tinkers with gears and oil day in and day out, amidst the company of giant with the eyes of a man that has seen tragedy and love and heartbreak and death a million times over, Raffe seems small. And, in his approach, the others seem to know that – here, together, it is their domain.

"Excuse me?" Despite the fractured ice in Raffe's eyes and poison in his voice, I still fear for him as Bryon pivots to regard him.

"Peace, angel," Bryon soothes. The hand holding his long wooden staff readjusts its grip. His face is now angled away from mine, so I do not know what his face reads, but Raffe's gaze is fixed on Bryon's. "His drawing and way of seeing you are both incorrect. But you can hardly blame the boy. He has sparingly been forgiven; those monsters that do not are dealt with oftentimes, but it would be your first step towards redemption."

"Redemption?" The skepticism Raffe speaks with is acid. "What do I need to redeem?"

"Your honor." Bryon rifles through the last pictures, either unknowingly or deliberately undermining the threat Raffe poses by refusing to look him in the eyes. He releases the staff, leaning it against the crook of his arm to use two hands on the sketchbook. "You may have a nice spot in the angelic ranks, but there are more than angels in this world. You've been a nuisance for centuries – if you're going to regain your placement among the other archangels, you must regain the good opinion of those who have long hated you."

"You're supposed to take me to someone that can fix my wings," Raffe snarls, stepping forward into Bryon's personal space, breaking the giant's calm façade, "not become my political director."

With deep, calming breaths, Bryon turns to Raffe, eyes hard. With exaggerated serenity, Bryon closes the sketchbook and hands it to Hugo. Hugo clutches it tight to his chest and retreats, getting out of the bomb radius.

"The thing is, Raffe," Bryon explains with a voice that is too neutral, "I am one of the other beings whose respect you need to gain. And so are the only beings that will stitch your wings back on. Raffe, we do not have to be on different sides of this war. I stand with the humans. The humans stand against the angels. That does not mean that we cannot forge a treaty, with you, Messenger, as head of the hydra. However, if it is clear that you will not cooperate, I will have no choice to treat you like an enemy."

"Raffe." My voice is quiet. "We don't know how many people may be in these woods that we don't know about. Please, be civil." I glance sharply at my sister. "If it comes to violence, I'm not sure things will work out nicely."

Bryon's eyes soften. "It'd never come to violence," he denies, waving a hand dismissively. "No one in this forest attacks unless attacked first. It's a peaceful land. The home of the last Aurumn Stags. Maybe we'll see some, they're quite beautiful creatures. No one would dare risk their safety, no one under my command."

"And we are to just trust you?" Raffe questions bitterly.

"It would seem so." Bryon tilts his head to one side. "I think of you with no kindness, Raphael, but I am willing to believe that anyone can change. Others will not be so lenient. And, even if you choose to make an enemy out of me, there are others you must impress in order to maintain the angelic race as a whole."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that ever since the angels dethroned the Seraphim, ire and hatred has flared to life in the hearts of many, many creatures. You are the only real race that seems to hate humanity – we have all adored their company these long years. I, myself, love watching a child grow up to become something beautiful. It has taken them centuries to come to where they are now, with the loving care of many a race. We were the ones that cushioned their falls and clapped in awe as they amazed us all. It has irked many that you have shattered them."

"Any race that harbors little monkeys cannot be sanitary."

Bryon studies Raffe indignantly. "How can you be so blind?" he cries. "That mind of yours, so bright, and yet so stupid! Why must you destroy everything that displeases you?"

"The humans shot down Gabriel," Raffe growls.

"The humans were scared. It was a perfect ploy for someone else to man the gun. No one liked that dictator – he is even more despised than you. I suppose the shooter could not have formulated the primitive response they received from the angels."

"Why do you defend these filthy monkeys?" Raffe demands. "You may have the Prom King look, but it's not all style. Anyone smart that's been around for a while can tell you that."

"How can you not defend those 'filthy monkeys'?" Bryon stabs his staff into the skin of the earth, his anger slowly emerging, visible in the bronze eyes that glint like coins. "You angels! You think yourself superior because you have muscle, because you have brawn. You are nothing but warriors, and that does not make you superior. Because even the most beautiful, the sharpest, the most medaled warrior is nothing but a warrior. There is nothing to brag about there.

"But humanity!" Bryon's eyes shine. "Beautiful, silly, goofy, insignificant humanity! Even the smallest person, the smallest 'monkey' as you so discriminately title them, is beautiful! For a warrior is cursed to only destroy and take orders to destroy more. But a human can _create_. They can sing notes of beauty with their lips, composing it as they go along. Even those not gifted with a lovely voice, they can create a song! Those beautiful notes, gently played on an instrument, a beautiful work of art in itself. The crafters can sculpt and build and mold the world to their hands, to their tiny little hands. And the artists, the artists can see what the crafters have built, and they can paint it! They can combine pigments and dyes and – lord, I don't even know, and copy an image onto a blank page. Is that not beautiful? And then, Raphael, the author, the writer, the thinker, gazes upon such beauty and thinks that they must capture the image on paper and in odorous ink, they must write it down so others will understand the exact measure of their thoughts and senses. Think of it, Raphael! How can you disrespect such gorgeous nature? How can you destroy such a culture?"

"You neglect to mention those that sit in their homes without a thought of beauty," Raffe points out. "You neglect to mention their beautiful crimes and their dirty habits. The way they are driven blindly by instinct. The way one man rises and another man falls."

"Does every species not have its bad points?" sighs Bryon. "Must you find corruption in everything but yourself?"

"One can tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel," whispers Hugo loudly, stroking Scruffy's ears.

"Do _not_ bring Doctor Who into this," mutters Bryon from the side of his mouth.

"Must you seek to find beauty where there is none?" challenges Raffe. "Must you seek to misunderstand something entirely in your chase for goodness? Because only a fool believes that the world is his friend."

_Do not insult the Dragon King's goodness, his willingness to find light in every soul._ A voice rattles in my brain, bringing explosive pain to my temples. Bryon lifts his head, Raffe does the same, as does Ogden. Scruffy remains oblivious, and Hugo winces slightly. Paige screams and doubles over. I clasp my hands to my temples, fuzzy eyesight fixing on a pure form slinking from the mottled woods. _He is the only reason you still tread upon this sacred ground, O Wrath of God. His words ring true. Your blood is a thirst of mine. To consider me pleased to have you here before me without injury or contusion is angering. The Dragon King is not my master – but I do as he advises. Do not make me break my word._

Shivering, I unfurl from the ball I'd rolled into. With a massive gasp for air, I fix my gaze on the shape that'd melted from the darkness of the tree's shadows.

A white wolf twice Scruffy's size watches me, two teardrop shaped wings folded tightly against its back. It's the color of freshly fallen snow, crisp and clean. It watches the scene a moment more before trotting back into the embrace of the shadows, snowy coat hidden by the blackness of the coming night.

"Jane," groans Hugo. "Scruffy, you retard, why didn't you warn me?"

Scruffy's mouth falls open and his tongue lolls out, his tail wagging in miscomprehension.

My world spins. I groan. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, two bright eyes piercing the swirling mass of beige and emerald. Gently, he shakes me shoulder, concern pinching his eyebrows together.

"Penryn?" Bryon presses. "Are you alright?"

"What the hell," I gasp, attempting to expand my muscles as best I can.

"Telepathy. You're doing surprisingly well. My first time and I couldn't speak for the rest of the day. But you are female, and that must be taken into account." Bryon leans down even further, scooping me up into his arms. "Paige, though, is taking it remarkably. She's just mildly dazed. You, however, should get to sleep. Your head will stop aching after relaxation." Then, in a loud, ordering voice, "Hugo! We're sleeping here tonight, prepare Penryn a bed."

With a slow, sweeping trod, Bryon steps forward, me cradled in his arms like a child. The inhale and exhale of his chest rocks my head, the rhythmic cycle setting a template for my own breathing. The unbearable spiral of colors makes my brain ache. In order to escape my demented vision, I close my eyes to crescents, only allowing myself to stare up at Bryon as he walks me across the clearing.

"Is she alright?" Raffe's concerned voice is not matched to a face, but lost somewhere in the swirl of colors. "Will the effects be long-lasting?"

"She may be a bit dizzy in the morning, but she has her mother's endurance," Bryon reassures. "Penryn will be fine, given a good night's rest. HUGO! HURRY UP WITH THAT!"

"Ogden!" Hugo yelps, voice muffled. "Help, please!"

"Who was that bitch of a wolf?" Raffe snarls.

"Jane," answers Bryon. "Do us both a favor and _don't_. She knows how to properly kill an angel, and that would just make my job that much harder. If you want to be useful, scope our surroundings. Telepathy attracts all sorts of nasties. I can't hear anything, but a lot are silent killers."

"Who…" My voice falters.

"Penryn?" Bryon questions, his voice as caress.

"Who is the Dragon King?" I wonder, blinking once before sealing my eyes shut once more.

The vibrations of Bryon's hearty laughter itch over my skin. "'Dragon' is the codename given to me by those that feel codenames are necessary when no one really knows who I am, anyway. I am the Dragon King because I… am a king. That is my explanation for the nickname."

"You're a…" My breath fails me.

"Hush," Bryon scolds. "We'll talk in the morning." He bends down, slowly releasing me, letting my body droop over a familiar saddle blanket. Something silky and warm drapes over me, like a blanket that I'd never truly had before. I snuggle deep into its fold. Peeping one eye open, I watch as Bryon rises and pads off, not able to truly hear the glorious tones of his speech.

Before my eyes shut and my mind drifts off into the gentle embrace of sleep, I do, however, distinctively note that his cloak is missing, and that my achieved blanket is a warm brown color.

* * *

Hugo's pencil itches over the paper, gentle lines softening the hard gradient figures. His eyes narrow with concentration. Fingers quivering slightly with the tenacity of his focus, Hugo bows over the sketchpad, gently coloring in the last of the gears on the final diagram.

"What is that?" Bryon husks, collapsing on the log beside him.

Hugo tilts the sketchbook to provide him a better view. "I'm working on a new design for the copper wings. One freestanding. You know, you don't have to strap it to your arms."

Bryon's mouth quirks. "Well, that'll be useful for some people, for sure. I'm stuck in my ways, only my pair will do. By the way, did you fix them?"

"Yep," confirms Hugo with a nod of his head. "I got Ogden to shape you multiple extras, since that one goddamned feather won't stay on there."

"Ah." Bryon smiles. "When he's back from foraging, I'll be sure to thank him. So, how does this contraption thing work?"

"I'm not sure yet," mutters Hugo, taking the lead to the paper once more. "That's why I'm working on it."

* * *

Raffe's heat is scalding, and, for the second time in a matter of days, I find myself pinned against the mass of firm muscle. My vision no longer pitches and sways. Aside from a small throb in my head, I feel normal – normal, but with an excessive need to take a trip into the woods and alleviate myself.

To alert anyone else peacefully slumbering in the circle would be a mistake, one that would invite more criticism to Raffe. However, a way to squirm from his viselike embrace is hard to discover. Instead of brunt tactics, though, I aim for finesse.

Scruffy's pelt is stained silver by the nearly full moon watching overhead, a lonely eye in the sky, surrounded by a thousand winking stars. The wolf watches me with his red eyes, blinking once, before his gaze is caught by something in the distance. With a whuff of concern, he leaps from his position perched upon a fallen log and lopes into the forest like a shadow.

Dismissing the wolf's odd behavior, I lift the only hand not caught in Raffe's embrace. Gently, I drape it over his own, aligning each tendon. His breath stirs slightly, but not with the punctured rhythm of a man rising from sleep. Slowly, I rub circles over the back of his hand with two fingers, massaging his tense muscles calmingly. As the circles continue up his arms, Raffe relaxes – a heavy sigh escapes his lips near the elbow, and his body seems to unclench.

With exaggerated tenderness, I lift Raffe's heavy muscled arm, shuffling out from beneath it. Accidently, though, as I try to squirm from his grip, I jab an elbow into his gut. Raffe's breath jars, and his muscles tense once more.

"What are you doing?" Raffe's voice, though drugged by sleep, is skeptical and amused in one acidic concoction.

"Trying to not wake you up," I murmur back.

"Strange, people don't often stab other people in the gut when they're doing that."

"I did not stab you," I scoff, voice a whisper. "I was just testing to make sure that you… weren't dead."

"Oh? What are your results?"

"You're not."

"Medicine is definitely the right career choice, Dr. Young. We might not even have to follow these idiots, if you keep on unearthing these pearls of wisdom."

"Stop it."

"You stop stabbing me in the gut."

"I didn't stab you!"

"With an elbow like that? You might as well have taken my sword and impaled me. I'm still gasping for breath."

"Shut up, the two of you," Hugo growls from the opposite side of Raffe.

"Get off me," I order in a slightly softer tone of voice, stabbing my fingernails irritably into the soft arm still wrapped around my waist.

"Why should I?" Raffe hugs tighter, pulling me against him despite my daggerlike fingernails embedded deep into his skin. "Don't you want to be kept warm against the cold of the night?"

"I have to pee," I threaten. "You might want to let me go."

"Ah." Raffe's arm releases me immediately, his silken voice losing its velvety richness. "Couldn't have mentioned that a smidgen earlier?"

"Nah," I explain, rising first on all fours. "I was stabbing someone in the gut."

The world spins as I stand up. The midnight blue leaves and jet black tree trunks swirl and pitch, moon a smear on a canvas of dark, hypnotic colors. I stagger drunkenly, nearly tripping on the folds of the saddle blanket. My breathing is ragged, and sweat breaks out over my forehead.

"Penryn?" It's not Raffe's voice, but rather Bryon's. He slumbers on the opposite side of Ogden, bronze eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"I'm okay," I mutter through gritted teeth. "If I scream, come running."

"Count on it," Raffe vows, propping himself up on one elbow.

"_Shut up!_" hisses Hugo grouchily, curling tighter in on himself and clasping his hands around his ears.

And so, with two pairs of eyes locked on my back, I stumble into the darkness of the woods. In all honestly, it isn't so bad – the shadows stretch long, and the moaning breeze through the trees send them dancing, but the cool air is blissful and the night sky is beautiful. It's like obsidian, studded with diamonds and one fat pearl. The leaves rustle beneath my feet with every heavy trod – though it may be in vain, I struggle to wander far enough from the camp to perhaps evade Raffe's sharp hearing. I don't think he'd make a potty-joke, per se, but each day, the quality of his humor deteriorates.

It isn't long before I'm completely lost.

Resisting the urge to yell complaints at the moon I'd earlier so ardently admired, I stumble about in circles, finding myself getting absolutely nowhere. I can find my way through a forest as well as the next girl in the broad daylight – that isn't hard in the slightest, what with all the landmarks – but with night's soft voice singing at the very edges of my imagination and the shadows dancing like demons, I simply cannot find my way back to anything that looks familiar.

The wind howls like the wolf I know it is, biting quickly through my shirt and nipping frigidly at my skin. Shivering, I bow beneath the clawing branches of a low-growing tree, leaning against its snagging bark. Simply what I need at the moment – to be teased upon how I'd lost myself in the woods going to the bathroom. With a dejected shiver, I curl up into a ball at the roots of the tree, groaning to myself.

A branch snaps in the quiet clarity, somewhere off to my left. My head snaps up, pulse spiking. Stumbling clumsily to my feet, I rest my hand on the hilt of Pooky Bear, drawing comfort from its usual spice of rage.

Another twig screeches, this time drawing my attention to a place I'd thought had been opposite of the other. Here, I see long, quivering fur shining silver. Here, I see two bright eyes. But here, I see a figure, one that looks just about the right size and shape to be someone I know.

I let out a long breath, releasing the hilt of Pooky Bear and rolling my eyes. "Scruffy, boy, you scared –"

A lion's roar is issued from the maw of the creature. It bares its ivory teeth to the sky, rearing on its hind legs. Two crimson red eyes gleam in the darkness. Taloned feet slam back to the ground. It lowers its head and charges, and I suddenly am struck with an alarming realization – this is not Scruffy. Scruffy is nowhere to be seen.

My hand closes around the hilt of Pooky Bear, yanking her free, but not before the beast has approached. I see its paw whirl about before I can lift her. Crying out, I skid through the leaves. Pain erupts in my left shoulder, ribbons of agony sliced into my flesh. Warm, wet liquid oozes around my shirt.

Still, I scrabble backwards desperately, leaning on the injured arm and lifting Pooky Bear up to the sky as a warning. Once, it swipes at the sword, but recoils and hisses as I catch the soft underside of its paw on the blade. Leaves I pass leave trails of fire over the wound. The monster seems reluctant to approach, hissing at the weapon glinting cruelly in the moon and favoring its injured foot. But my position and its rapid chase on every move I make is not admirable – its courage will reinstate, and it will find a way to bat Pooky Bear aside.

Gathering oxygen, I release one scream to the sky – a single high note, shrieking for reinforcements. I gasp for air, refilling my empty lungs. Still shuffling backwards, I slam against the trunk of a tree.

My plan to twist hastily around the tree proves redundant as another creature snarls and bounds from the woods, meeting the beast in combat. Both are standing on their back feet, front limbs interlocked. There they stand in bitter battle for mere seconds, both reared and teeth bared. Teeth glint and eyes gleam. Snarls and growls are audacious in the air. Casting their shadows upon me, the two creatures grapple, wrestling desperately.

My savior howls with pain as the beast buries its fangs into his shoulder. But the snarl he retaliates with is only fueled by increased hatred – the strength in my creature's limbs pushes the other one back. The beast does not go willingly, ripping a chunk of flesh from the creature's shoulder instead of unlocking its jaws. But the hostile beast crashes to the ground with a snap like a bone breaking. With a mewl of pain, the monster rises and bolts into the distance. My savior snarls out a warning, a threat that hangs in the air as the beast fades into the distance.

His reflective eyes immediately turn to me, concern and pain candidly mixed. My savior takes two steps forward, howls in pain, crosses the rest of the distance, and collapses. I whisper his name and string my hands through his hair. His head is heavy in my lap, dark blood seeping from the deep wound to spill over my jeans. Eyes fluttering, he groans weakly.

"Help!" I bellow, gently massaging his weary face. "He's hurt!"

A hiss of leaves accompanied by the snap of wind to my face passes, so quick I can barely focus on the sound. It rasps past, quick on the tail of the beast. Another hiss follows sharply, but this one does not rocket past. Raffe appears beside the tree I'd stopped at, his blue eyes wide.

My tears blur my vision as I smooth his hair from his eyes. "Please," I whisper. "Scruffy – he's hurt, bad. He fought it off. Please."

Scruffy peels one eye open and whines at his name, tail twitching in a frail imitation of a wag.

"Oh, Penryn," Raffe sighs, falling to his knees beside the wolf. "What the hell were you even doing this far out?"

"I got lost," I explain lamely. "Quick, we need to put pressure on the wound. Do you have anything?"

"Not here." Raffe shakes his head quickly. "I would send Bryon back, but he called dibs to go hunt down whatever was attacking you. Do you know –"

"Can you carry him down to the camp?"

Those blue eyes blink in the night. "It may be hard for you to believe, Penryn," Raffe admits in a soothing, apologetic tone, "but I'm not Superman. I can't do everything, especially not pick up that sack of meat."

"What do we do, then?" I whisper, stroking his cheek. "Scruffy, boy? You okay?" He lifts one eye and whines again. "You're Paige's buddy, you hear? She loves you like she's had a dog like you all her little life. And now you've just got to hold on, you here?"

Raffe is silent for a moment. "You're talking to a dog," he states flatly.

"Yeah, well, shut up," I snap irritably. "Everyone gets emotional when dogs die, but they really don't give shits about smartass angels."

"I never said he was going to die," Raffe assuages, "and I bet you the entire theater would sob over me. Penryn, we've got to see if Scruffy can walk if we're going to try and help him. It may hurt him."

"Better he hurt than die," I growl. The world rocks slightly as I, myself, rise. Blood quits welling beneath my jacket and instead trickles down my arm, along the soft skin of my ribs, following the curve of my fingers. Raffe's eyes widen.

"You're hurt," he breathes, rushing forward. "Where?"

"It's okay," I reassure, shooing him off. "Doesn't hurt that much."

"We should be putting pressure on _that_." Raffe's voice is adamant. "The wolf died to save you, it's a noble cause. Now, we need to get you –"

Scruffy cuts off his statement with a furious snarl, twisting his head around as Raffe starts out over the leaves. His gaze is fixed on Raffe, determination as clear as day across his face. It's almost as if I can see his thoughts, see his will to prove this imprudent archangel wrong. And he does. Paw by paw, he rises from the leaves, towering above with slender limbs and scruffy fur.

"C'mon, boy," I murmur. I extend one shaky hand towards him, a hand that he soon presses his muzzle to. "Let's go."

Raffe watches skeptically as I take my first wobbly step. Then, on my second, he swoops in and picks me up. Those two leathery wings wrap around his body, as if they're trying to shield me against the cold. I slam my fist into his chest.

"I can walk," I insist.

"No, you can't. You can _hobble_, if you'd like, but do you know how many women I sweep up into my arms?" His eyes are glued to my shoulder, the concern across his expression not matching his cocky tone.

"I guess it'd be hard to catch them, considering they're always screaming and fleeing. On a nature documentary, I watched that wolves always choose the weakest link. You think you can pull something suave because I can't run."

"Maybe the wolf felt sorry for the ickle sheep. Who's to say fate's not on your side for this one, hmm?"

"Because the wolf sure as hell is stupid if he thinks I'm an 'ickle sheep'. And slow down, Scruffy's hurt, too."

* * *

**I'm just looking at the word count right now. Before editing, it's 4,655 words. These are meant to be between 3-4,000 word chapters. This is just crazy. But… there's no way I could separate that into two chapters and maintain sanity. Update: now there's 5,053 words**

**POLL: Do you think Scruffy's hurt pretty bad or is he just milking the injury?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

"Shit." Hugo's voice skyrockets an octave. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _fuck!_ Oh, hell, oh, hell, Scruffy, you fluffy bastard. That's definitely got a green tinge to it, doesn't it, buddy?"

"It could be the green glowstick you're using," sneers Raffe.

Hugo whips around, rising up from the ground. He flicks the glowstick behind the underbrush, sending it sailing in an arch. Jabbing a finger at Scruffy's raw flesh, he snarls, "Then look with your fucking angel eyes! Tell me his skin doesn't have a greenish tinge! Look me in the eye and say it!"

Raffe falls silent. Reacting to his master's stress, Scruffy groans, twitching slightly.

Hugo turns around, raking both bloody hands through his hair. Collapsing next to Scruffy again, his tortured gaze lands on mine, glinting only by the final embers of the fluttering fire. "Did you get a good look at the thing? Can you tell me what it looked like?"

Worried by his panicked tone, I shake my head swiftly. "I couldn't see much. But it looked like it had a human face. It was about Scruffy's size, maybe a bit bigger. Bulky. Mean talons. Its jaw unhinged or something, it just got really large when it leaned in to take that bite. Long, sabertooth teeth. Tufted tail, like a lion."

Hugo goes from frenzied to hysterical with fear, with this new information, going as rigid as a board, voice cracking. "And you're not feeling anything but the normal pain in your wound? No greenish tinge?"

I shake my head quickly, glancing up once at Raffe, who's holding a bunched up shirt to the slices in my shoulder. He, too, shakes his head. "No greenish tinge. She's not frothing at the mouth any more than usual, either."

I jab him sharply in the ribs with my elbow.

Rabid fear gleams in Hugo's eyes. He repeatedly drives his blood-soaked hands through his hair, eventually drenching his cinnamon locks. Tears begin to well, turning his coppery pupils into mirrors. "Oh, God. Oh, Lord, good, sweet Lord, please, I swear I will give up atheism and become the most Christian Christian to ever have Christianed." Swallowing with evident difficulty, Hugo meets my gaze. "Did it seem to have a fluffier neck, like it had a mane, or any other leonine features?"

I blink. "It – did, now that you mention it. Looked a lot like a giant lion with a weird head."

Hugo wails like a mourner at a funeral. "No!" Hugo howls in agony, clawing down his face, leaving trails of crimson blood over his cheeks. "No! Not here! Please, not here! Not now! Not Scruffy!" Scruffy peels a single eye open, issuing a whine that turns into a rack of coughing.

Ogden rises from his placement kneeling next to the wolf, pacing back and forth, distress obvious in his stance. The gears and other assorted metal fragments tinkle with each step. Raffe's pressure on my shoulder falters slightly.

"What is it?" I ask to anyone who is willing to offer an answer. "What's wrong?"

"You think Penryn ran into a cherub," Raffe guesses, ignoring my question. The features on his face that the fire chooses to accentuate create a frightening god, his leathery wings a terrifying backdrop. "It's impossible."

Hugo's eyes burn. "Is it? Goddammit, Raffe, think! Just for once in your life! I know it's difficult for you angels, but there's got to be a few brain cells in there somewhere! Ariel has never liked you. Some would even go as far to say that she hates you more than She Wolf does. She has no fucking clue that Bryon's out here with you. To her, it's only you and Penryn, and she's willing to sacrifice Penryn, even if it means Dragon and Lion are now her mortal enemies. She doesn't care how many Aurumn Stags she murders. In her eyes, you're a savage, a brutal savage. Even Uriel would be a step-up. And so she's going to get rid of you."

"A cherub?" I explode, mind reeling. "You're saying that thing in the woods was a little baby angel?"

Hugo throws his hands up in the air. "Where the hell did that rumor come from? What part of a cherub looks like a baby? The females have wimpy baby wings, I suppose, but nothing else – wait, I take that back. They've always got the heads of human babies."

"And Ariel?" I demand, pleased upon finally receiving some answers. "Who is she, and what does she have against Raffe?"

"Female equivalent of a Messenger. Leader of the she-angels." Hugo turns back to Scruffy, rubbing his hands over the wolf's face, cupping his head and cradling him on his lap. "You know, leader of the she-angels that don't stay in male aeries. Leader of the she-angels that don't promote misogyny. Lioness Archangel. Other than Azrael and wittle Audiat, she's the only female Archangel. She's the one that handles the cherubs, decides when they step in."

"It was a bad decision," Raffe growls darkly, "giving that responsibility to _her_."

Hugo snorts, the sound choking in his throat. "Misogynic angelic bastard," he mutters, sniffing loudly as he strokes Scruffy's ears. The wolf isn't looking so good – his velvety ears are limp, hanging like two wet cloths from the sides of his head. Thick, goopy snot runs from both nostrils like chunky rivers – they gleam in the light of the fire Ogden had started. His coppery eyes are glazed and distant, his left foreleg stiff as a board, and his chest rocks with labored breaths, each sound like that of a plastic bag being blown in and out of. Salt crusts the pads of his paws from the sweat he sheds.

"How long has it been?" wonders Raffe, dropping to a squat beside Scruffy. His broad hand rests at the wolf's forehead – my breath catches upon the realization that Scruffy barely reacts.

Hugo bares his teeth at Raffe like a wild animal, the gleam of his eyes caught in the green of the distant glowstick and the wheezing embers. "What does it matter to you?"

"This wolf saved Penryn's life. No matter my own personal dislikes" – Raffe's lip curls with disgust – "I can't ignore that. So, if you'd like to sit there and bitch about it, be my guest. I'm saving that wolf."

Hugo's hesitation seems to dangle my hope from a thin string, allowing it to twirl and flail in the breeze. At last, he nods, a small sniffle coming from him. "It's been nearly two hours. The venom should – a cherub's bite victim never lasts more than twelve hours."

"Without the proper antivenin, it doesn't," Raffe agrees with a curt nod of his head. "You said you've got nearly everything buried deep in those packs. Cherub antivenin isn't half as rare as that satanic symbols textbook you showed me earlier."

"I sold my last bottle to a Seraph." Hugo buries his face in his hands, massaging bloody fingers over his cheeks, his forehead, his temples. "God, I don't know what to do. I was going to restock at the next trading center, but… there's no getting out of this, not without Scruffy."

"To be pessimistic about something is to hand your soul over to the devil," Raffe scolds, whacking Hugo with the broad of one of his leathery wings. "Cheer up, Captain Sunshine."

"Think about it, Raffe. Bryon has no clue he's after a cherub. He's going to hunt that thing down and kill it if he can, before it reaches the swarm. If it does reach the swarm before he can track it down, God bless the poor dude. But, either way, the cherubs have a link straight back to this camp by his scent. They can pick up the traces of your odor on him, you know."

"Yeah, but I don't," I interject, nosing into their conversation. "Mind going into cherubs with a little more depth?"

"Well, the one you ran into was just a male," heads Hugo, switching out the filthy drenched rag that'd been pressed up against Scruffy's wound for a slightly newer filthy rag. "A scout to the party. Y'know, to search for any other main predators and chase 'em off, something that might give the females trouble. Basically, big male lions."

"The females are the ones you've really got to watch for," continues Raffe in a heartbeat, a breath behind Hugo. "They travel in – I don't think 'swarms' is an accurate description, but that's what they're called. More like a pack, like a pack of wolves. Body upon body upon body, running over each other, like a tawny tsunami of fangs and muscle and fur. Nasty creatures, millions in a 'swarm.'"

"They're nearly inescapable." Hugo dunks his hands in the bowl he'd been using as a washbasin type thing to at least cleanse himself, staining the water red. "See, even though the males are the only ones with big enough wings to fly for more than a few feet at a time, they're significantly weaker. Only their bites are poisonous, and even then, you've got twelve whole hours to track down a doctor. But with females – you never, ever want them to get their jaws on you. Then you won't even have the agony of your one-hour death, because a singular bite almost never happens except in laboratory circumstances. No, one latches on with barbed teeth and the rest follow. Like piranhas. Their venom grows that much more potent with each new nibble."

"Also, the claws are nasty," adds Raffe. "The venom coating those six-inch bad boys is similar to the strength of the male bite. To best avoid a swarm, angels usually take to the air. Need be, I will do that, carrying as many people as I can handle. But if –" Raffe cuts off. "We should search for alternate routes."

Hugo's eyes gleam as he backs up against the fire, raising his slender fingers to the flames to heat them against the chill of the night. "I'm not leaving Scruffy. Whatever we do –"

Abruptly, Hugo winces, back arching slightly. Curling over with a bizarre expression dominating his face, Hugo stands against the fire attentively, almost as if he's tuning into a favorite teacher's studies. The moment passes, and his taut face relaxes, the shadows of the fire dancing over his body once more.

Hugo frowns doubtfully. He pivots on one foot, turning to a figure half-swallowed by the darkened night. Crossing his arms, furrowing his brow, and pursing his lips, Hugo says, "Ogden, I don't know if that's such a good idea, especially with Raphael. I mean, a lot of work was –"

Hunching over again, Hugo listens, for a shorter period of time. My gaze catches Raffe's and he tilts his head in a gesture of minute puzzlement. The fire sways and flicks like a whip over his face in accordance with the wind's ferocity, highlighting fierce, strong features and black hair the color of the night itself. My attention is once more adverted from the angel as Hugo is brought back to life.

"I dunno, man." Hugo shakes his head, worry glinting alongside the copper in his eyes. "We should wait for –"

This time, Ogden moves in the darkness. My vision can hardly pierce the shadows of the night, can scarcely see beyond their dusky veils, but I do see his fist slam into the trunk of the nearest tree in a gesture of violent displeasure. Hugo doubles over, gasping instead of freezing.

"Alright, Ogden," he apologizes hurriedly. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean it like that. I know you're older than Bryon, and wiser and stuff. Just – thought he should be here before we take off."

Ogden nods. Before I can fully comprehend what'd taken place, the old man steps up to the firelight and beams shyly at Hugo. Apology sparkles in those warm brown eyes, candid and ashamed. Breathing out shakily, Hugo slaps Ogden on the forearm.

"Sorry, man, you pull off the human image so well, I forget sometimes you're just as powerful as Bryon," he chuckles. "And you're right; it's not like there's anything but abandoned medical supplies there. They can always build another one. I'll have to call Baelan to help us out with Scruffy and the packs."

Raffe steps forward, bathing his chiseled body in firelight. "What's going on?"

"Back in the old days, y'know, pre-apocalypse," Hugo explains, striding past Raffe with his usual carefree arrogance returning with each cocky word, "Nephilim would learn how to tell when you or any other angel was coming by the weather patterns. You weren't exactly stealthy with it, by the way. And so, they focused their environments around these holy places called Chazas, named after Chazaqiel, the Watcher that taught his children how to watch the clouds. Now, they're mostly called Nephilim Temples. There's an abandoned one not three miles from here – we passed right by it, not to long ago. Should be safe to harbor us for the night."

"They left because the western coast is dangerous, correct?" Raffe assumes.

"Well, yeah. Honestly, it was a bad idea to build here at all, despite the boom in education and jobs and stuff. Everyone was awfully convinced that the angels were gone for good, though. Good thing your dad chased the Nephilim off when things started getting bad again, Penryn, or they'd pretty much be screwed, and Raffe's reputation would be in smithereens."

I open my mouth to question him, but I don't get very far before my train of thought is stolen from me. A silver knife gleams in the air, hissing in pleasure as it snakes through flesh. My mouth drops open as a thick trail of blood bubbles from Hugo's forearm, dripping down his fingers, landing drop by drop in the sable leaves beneath him.

"Oh, you hellish thing," Hugo chants awkwardly. "You hell angel – that's fallen – so now you're bad. Come to me, bad fallen hell angel." Weariness replaces his odd tone of voice. "Oh, fuck it. I need you, Bay." Hugo's voice cracks. "I need you _right now_."

"How soon is 'right now'?" rumbles a voice with the depth and complexity of a roll of thunderclaps, and something shivers in the shadows. Raffe drops into a protective stance, legs splaying wide and scythes bristling from their sheathes.

"Bay!" Hugo rejoices, throwing his arms around the shadowed figure. "Oh, God, man, I thought you weren't going to show up! Listen, I'm so sorry, completely and utterly my fault, I was a dick, it'll never happen again –"

"You have no reason to be sorry, it was not completely your fault, you were a dick, I'm sure it'll happen again." The creature darkened by the surrounding night wraps its arms around Hugo as well, the fire revealing a reddish brown skin pallor. "For the record, though, I was coming here to apologize when I heard you calling. Hugo, what's wrong? Why is your face red? Your hair? Why are you bloody?" Almost as if he's grooming Hugo, the creature rubs at his face with a palm and strokes his hair anxiously.

"Bay." Hugo grabs the massive fallen angel by the wrists, pausing his grooming assault. "It's not my blood."

The angel is silent for a long moment, his hands dropping down by his sides. I use the silence to gather Paige against me, clasping her tiny hand in mine and squeezing it. My heart hammers in my veins, my hand gripping the hilt of Pooky Bear tightly.

"What's the matter, Hugo?" the fallen angel questions pensively.

"It's Scruffy." Though I support gay rights, I can't say I'm comfortable as Hugo buries his head into the fallen angel Baelan's shoulder. "He's –"

"I see," cuts off Baelan, his throaty voice as hard as flint. "The cherubs, I assume, are the culprits?"

Hugo nods in the darkness.

"Ariel," Baelan grumbles, striding towards the light, allowing me the first real glance at all six and a half feet of him. "She means well, she truly does. In fact, if things had worked out as they should've, she would've had my highest praise. But the fact that Scruffy was harmed in the crossfires gives birth to a sort of ire, doesn't it?" Without pause, he continues on to say, "Oh, Raphael, quit glaring at me. We have more pressing urges to follow than the tug of testosterone."

"Later," Raffe vows. "I take it you are, however, Hugo's sweetheart?"

"Yes. And you would be Penryn's?"

"No."

"Good for her." Warm approval paints his hard voice a different shade of grey, into something softer. His face cocks towards me. "Good for you. You can do much better."

"I'm not sure you get much better than me," Raffe brags.

"We are testosterone fighting, and wasting time," Baelan negates, turning his back on Raffe to crouch down to Scruffy. Thick fingers caress up the wolf's neck, prompting a whine and a tail wag – the largest reaction I'd seen from the mutt in a long while to anyone. "For the record, though, Hugo is a thousand times better than you. Is Bryon about?"

"Nah, he chased after the cherub." Hugo jabs a thumb over his shoulder. With Baelan here, he seems considerably calmer, even returning to the washbasin to clean his face of blood. "He should catch wind of this and be on his merry way when he comes back to the camp. Ogden wants us to leave immediately."

Baelan nods in comprehension, his head bobbing in the firelight. "Ogden, would you mind giving me a hand? I can take most of Scruffy's weight, but his feet would drag. Oh, wait, can you take a few of Hugo's packs? Raphael, you too. Penryn, since you're the only one who'll have an angel sword who'll be truly accessible, remain on guard. It looks like a nasty wound, and I'm sorry, but you'll need to be a hundred percent. Keep the little girl close – the last thing we need is her wandering off. Hugo, take my sword – show Penryn how extraordinary a real supernatural weapon is, please."

Hugo ambles forward cockily, allowing his fingers to roam about the angel's waistline slightly before gripping the hilt of his boyfriend's sword tightly. With the gentle hiss of metal reveling in freedom, the sword slides from the scabbard. The firelight only illuminates the jagged edges and the black matte material of the metal.

"Alright." The moonlight gleams off Baelan's long hair. "Ogden, do you have a few packs over one shoulder? Good, so do I. Now, help me with Scruffy. Just slightly lift him, I'll take most of the weight."

Scruffy moans gutturally and kicks once as Baelan's muscles strain in the darkness. With animalistic strength, Baelan lifts Scruffy's front half from the ground, ducking beneath the wolf's chest. Baelan plants two hands on his chest, allowing the wolf's legs to droop lifelessly over his shoulders. With Scruffy's chin resting at his forehead, Baelan lifts his gaze to the rest of the group. Onyx eyes glitter in the darkness. For the first time, his dark wings unfurl slightly from his back to prop Scruffy's flaccid body up. They aren't utterly black, either, though the light is too poor to determine what they may be.

"Is everybody ready?" Baelan questions. It seems everybody is – Paige is clutching my hand, and, remarkably, Raffe's obediently got the weight of Hugo's packs over one shoulder. "Wait, no. I hear Bryon coming. Do you?"

"Yes," answers Raffe.

"Affirmative," pants a new voice. Bryon stumbles from the forest, tripping over his feet. His bronze eyes seem even moon lustrous in the moonlight, as if it is his element. Even the dark mess of his hair seems infused with metal only visible beneath the stars, gleaming in gentle shades of copper and gold, like tiger's eye. His staff still swings in one hand, cloak untouched, but the rest of him is battered and bares only the remains of wounds.

"I slowed down the swarm," he informs. "You do know – yes, you know, you've got Hugo with you, of course you know. Nice to see you again, Bay. Are we going somewhere?" He blinks, reflective eyes glinting in the night. "No, of course! The Nephilim Temple! Oh, you clever boy, Ogden. That's why we pay you the big bucks. Here, Raffe, let me take some of those, it looks heavy."

"I've got it," grunts Raffe, shifting the weight to both shoulders.

"Alright." Bryon recoils, a concerned expression hidden in his eyes. "Well, Penryn, can I borrow Pooky Bear? Just for the walk there, things are bound to get ugly. I've been handling angel swords for a little longer than you, just a smidge. But if nah, that's okay, I can borrow Hugo's bow."

"You can't pick up – never mind, I want to see this." Raffe cocks an eyebrow. "Give it to him, Penryn."

Bryon shrugs. "We really don't have time for this. Give it to me, or don't. It's your decision, Pe – can I call you Penny?"

"No," I veto the moment the words escape his lips. "And sure. Give it a swing. But you'd better give it back the moment we step inside this safe haven. That is, if you can hold her. She's pretty nitpicky."

Without another thought, my hand closes around Pooky Bear's hilt. I toss it in the air, allowing the blade to sparkle in the moonlight, seemingly a star of its own. Bryon catches it flawlessly, without an inkling of effort. He throws it up in the air once experimentally.

"Good blade," he compliments. "You don't get many like this. I think I'll call you Schnuckims. Let's go, shall we?"

"How –" breathes Raffe, but he ends his statement before anyone else can for him. "Never mind, let's leave it until later, like all of these other brilliant questions. We should leave immediately."

"That would be wise," concedes Baelan. "But this company isn't quite known for its wisdom."

* * *

"Is this it?" My voice is skeptical after the ages of silence, echoing off the hills. The cave is more like a puncture wound in the skin of the forest floor than a temple or a "Chaza", and the dark pit certainly doesn't look big enough for all of us. Yellow grass sways around in the night breeze, growing over the hillside like hair on a head.

"Yes." Bryon lifts his head, relief shining in his eyes. Hurriedly, he claps his staff against the trunk of a tree, drawing any attention that hadn't been on him. "We need to work swiftly, the swarm will undoubtedly be on us in the hour. Bay, Ogden, Hugo – you all go inside to help with Scruffy, but Bay, I want you to return as soon as you set Scruffy down, and you, Ogden, you stay with Hugo to help him with Scruffy. We need to barricade this door up. Raffe, you drop off your stuff right there at the doorway, and come immediately back out. Ogden, also pick up Raffe's stuff, okay? Penryn, here, take Shnuckims back" – he tosses it underhand, and I find that I, too, can catch it in the air without blinking an eye – "you're going to help me guard the backs of everyone working to barricade this place up. Paige, hon, how about you follow Hugo? Everyone got it? Yes? Go."

People split for the opening, carrying the now frothing at the mouth and unconscious wolf on their shoulders. Hugo's eyes gleam with worry, and one of his hands rests on Scruffy's side. Paige trots obediently after them. With a hostile glance, Raffe slinks as the tail of the beast. Ever since his sword had allowed herself to be handled by Bryon, he'd been sulky, like a kid on the playground whose favorite toy was stolen.

"Shit." Bryon curses quietly to himself. "Thought we had more time than that. Penryn, gather closer, ready position." With a swallow, Bryon's voice amplifies. "Hurry up! I hear the snarls!"

Raffe is outside in a heartbeat, next to the large Native American-colored fallen angel. My angel flexes his muscles, the familiar hiss of his scythes sliding from their sheathes filling the bitter night air. Bryon twists his staff expertly in one hand.

"Penryn, Baelan, you're going to need to guard," he orders. "No matter what attacks you, don't let it get past or get a claw through your defenses. We should have enough antivenin for male poison, but not for female. Raphael – you see these boulders, here?" Bryon gestures towards the uneven boulders peppering the hillside. "They were meant to block the hole up. That's our first order of business. The second path in is always blocked, as well as the third, so them finding an alternate path won't be an issue. Alright?"

"Consider it done." Raffe nods confidently. Despite the nerves tingling through my body as I, too, hear the first echoes of snarls and catlike yowls echoing over the ridges, I cannot help but notice the way he effortlessly heaves a boulder overhead to set it down in the belly of the hole. Bryon hefts his and places it besides Raffe's, gesturing to create a sort of tower with them to block up the eight-foot high hole.

"Ever fought a cherub?" Baelan's voice beckons me back to the present. His obsidian eyes glitter, his red skin tenses.

"No," I admit honestly, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. Imitating his ready stance and the way he holds his sword, I cast sly glances his direction. "I'm a bit new to this world of demons and ghosts. Just killed my first angel not long ago."

"I heard about that." Respect steels Baelan's voice. "Congratulations. Many of my brethren had a good laugh over that one. Considering most of the time they sulk about and stir up lives for the worst, it was comforting to know they still have a scrap of – dare I say it? – humanity."

"It's not every day I get complimented by a fallen angel for killing an angel." I smile dryly and shoot him a curious glance. "So, are you guys, like, rivals or something?"

"Not exactly." His muscles tense more, blade swinging up into a batter's position. "More like angel leaders are pissed at demon leaders. Foot soldiers on the fallen side really just don't give a –" his blade whips through the air the exact moment a beast springs from the shadows, tawny coat illuminated by the moonlight – "_DAMN_!"

The moment of impact is correspondent to the moment his blade hits the side of the creature's head. It wails and caterwauls into a nearby bush, the sound of a bone snapping nearly as loud as his roar.

"Nice one, Bae – Bay-lan?"

"Call me Bay." He smiles friendlily. "And that was nothing. It's going to get a helluva lot harder."

"Can you tell me where they're coming from?" I wonder, eyes still not able to puncture the shadows of the forest. The snarls had gained an octave the moment Bay's sword had hit the cherub. "I mean, I just need to point – oh, wait, I hereby name thee Pooky Bear."

"You had a chance to rename her!" Raffe howls from somewhere behind me. "Why? Why are you doing this to her? My weapon of utmost destruction!"

Though I ignore the necessity to give him an answer, I do not ignore his words – they bring a grin to my face. "I just need to point Pooky Bear in the right direction. If I don't know the right direction –"

"Coming up on your left, eleven o'clock," Bay interrupts, jerking his head about.

As soon as I gift Pooky Bear with this knowledge, she releases her anger at her cutesy name. I hear its snarl and move accordingly, positioning Pooky Bear in the way she orders. I don't even need to truly swing. The creature skewers itself, leaping onto the ready point and sliding down the blade until its chest hits the hilt with a _thunk_. My face contorts with disgust as I stare at the leonine neck melting into soft human baby skin and a little infant's head, mouth bristled with acid-dripping teeth. With the toe of my boot, I push it off the end, kicking it away from me in repulsion.

I turn to Bay, searching for approval, only to find him ripping his sword from the breasts of two other cherubs. My pride turns into a pout. "Oh, now you've got more than me."

His head snaps to the side. "Two nine o'clock, all yours."

Pooky Bear works her magic, cutting off each of their snarls. Her blade slices through their golden pelts like a hot knife through butter.

"We're almost finished!" cries Bryon. The snarls are almost like a buzz now, the inescapable buzz of the hive. The term "swarm" makes an alarming amount of sense now.

"They're almost on us!" Bay roars back. He grabs my wrist and drags me closer to the entrance of the Chaza, almost against the stone. "Oh, _Christo_, here they are."

My vision narrows, and Pooky Bear swings into position. The first cherub is met with my rapid downstrike, the second with a parry towards Bay's domain. Bay is like the demon he appears to be, slicing through the beasts in a hurricane-like fashion. Pooky Bear takes me on autopilot, guiding my limbs into swift motions, mowing down plenty of cherubs of my own.

But the cherubs are overwhelming – their screeches grate on my nerves, vibrating in my ears. The choir of snarls isn't background sound simply because of all the different tones of voice and pitches. No matter how many of the cherubs I slice down, no matter how high the wall of dead bodies before me grows, only more seem to come.

Slowly, the cherubs push me back, their grating squeals bringing agony to my ears. Not only do they approach from the front now – the little devils had flanked us as well. Their eyes – luminescent silver in the dark night – glare with unequivocal odium at me. Talons armed with bloodcurdling strength slice through the air like the wings of a thrush. Desperately, I try to duck and weave to avoid those I cannot block. Fanged mouths, I learn, are a perfect target; the back of their mouths are soft, and, with enough power, you can stab them through the maw and up into the skull.

The flightless cherubs pile over each other. A pair of jaws snaps next to my ear, a single thread of gloopy saliva landing on my forehead before I can slice the cherub down. The poisoned claws of the ones lucky enough to have clambered to the top slice into the tawny hides of those towards the bottom. My muscles tremble with effort of fending off all the claws.

Behind me, Bryon cries out. In the corner of my eye, I see him swinging his staff up to smack a cherub from its lithe pounce. Fatigue drags at my limbs; the high of Pooky Bear's fury is wearing off, grounded into fine sand by the wails of the cherubs.

"Fall back, Penryn!" Bay roars, slamming his elbow into the throat of a cherub that'd pierced through my defense system. At first, I do not comprehend the aberration, only shoved away from him by a reckless sweep of his arm. He takes on the full mass, tensing his muscles and splaying his dark wings, perhaps to increase his size. I stumble back and into a pair of waiting arms, watching as the fallen angel's burly form submerges into a sea of golden pelts, listening to their triumphant screeches with horror when he does not appear again.

"He'll be fine!" Bryon roars over the snarls of the cherubs, his grip on my shoulders tightening. He tugs me back against a rocky barrier, and shoves me to a hole in the fortification. "He'll go to hell if he gets mortally wounded. Go! We'll follow!"

Uncertainly, I back away from the swirling vortex of tawny cherubs, crouching down to shimmy through the gap in the stone and allow the cool darkness of the cave to grip me. The stone barricade is thick, and, with each foot that I inch deeper into the mouth of the cave, the screeching of the cherubs quiets.

Gasping, I drag myself out the other end, blinking at the infinite darkness before me. The dampness on my tongue and the slight drip echoing makes it seem like I'm in a long, wet corridor. Panting, I slide from the hole, wondering how either broad-shouldered Raffe or giant-in-general Bryon will make it through. Groping blindly for a wall, I stumble to my feet, Pooky Bear's tip dragging along the stone flooring with an awful scratch.

"Stop that," snaps Raffe. I can almost feel his movement as he, too, squeezes through the gap. "You're going to hurt her."

"I'm ever so sorry," I mutter sarcastically, "about your poor little sword. Is Bryon alright? Did he make it out?"

"I'm ever so pleased," Raffe counters with a snarl, "about your poor little Bryon. He's on my heels. Be out any second."

"Somebody call my name?" Bryon grunts as he slides from the hole, the sound of his wooden staff clattering against the rock. "I can't see worth a damn. Raphael, do you know where we put the stone was?"

"I can _try_ to find it." Raffe sounds skeptical. My skin tingles as one of his hands clip against my boot. His hand roams back, feeling the rubber tip, then patting it pettily in assurance. "Usually, though, I need a bit of light to operate."

Shooting him a puzzled look he doesn't receive, I mutter, "I thought you could see in the dark. Can't angels see in the dark?"

"Like anybody else," explains Raffe with exaggerated patience, "angels need some light to see anything. Whether it's an entire night sky or a single little star, we can see in the dark much better than people. But there's no light down here, nothing for me to see."

"Found it!" cries Bryon. A deep grunt is issued from somewhere to my right as he evidently hefts a boulder over one shoulder. "Should keep 'em out, this barrier combined with the natural guardians of this place. Ariel should call off the attack soon – Hugo tweeted her in annoyance, so we should get results the next time she's on a tablet."

"What?" I don't think I've ever heard Raffe so baffled.

"Twitter. New gambfingled technology." Bryon's smile is clear in his tone. "She-angels like to keep ahead of the game with the most modern technology. Now that this boulder is in place, we should move deeper into the belly of the temple. Welcoming us to the Chaza will be a statue of Chazaqiel and his ever-burning flame. I'm not sure what you two will do – Penryn, praying to an angel may seem like utter bogus, and Raphael, this entire setup may seem primal – but incense burning sticks will be offered, as well. For good luck, you place one at the feet of one of the Watchers."

"Is that a Nephilim custom?" Raffe's voice is smugly amused. "A way to respect their fathers?"

"No, it's a way for Nephilim to respect the first fathers." Bryon's voice is curt, as if Raffe had offended him. "Many of the Nephilim born today and in today's time never had fathers, _true_ fathers. Just… angels raping women case-scenarios. Those angels are revered by every race across the Earth for becoming something greater than the angelic stereotype, for becoming something absolutely beautiful."

Pitted between two wild animals on the brink of battle, I remain quiet as a prey animal beneath the predators' feet, avoiding drawing any attention to myself.

"Hmm," harrumphs Raffe skeptically. "There is nothing beautiful about siring demons."

"But there is something exquisitely beautiful in raising a family." Bryon taps the end of his staff to the stone floor. "Raphael, you may have different views than I, but now is hardly the time or the place to argue."

"I agree," I add. "We need to find Paige and get the hell on our way. Also, find Scruffy."

"I suppose we'd better move." Reluctance drags at Raffe's words. "Down the creepy passageway, then?"

"Down the creepy passageway," Bryon approves, his footsteps already whispering in the echoes of the hall. The wooden clack of his staff hitting the ground on each lope may eventually drive me mad, but, for the moment, it's calming – a beat, a rhythm to keep in sync with.

"Just out of interest, why could you pick up Pooky Bear?" I wonder.

"I was thinking that I was trying to save Raphael as hard as I could, honestly," Bryon admits. "Those swords read thoughts and intentions, as well. It could be partial to my blood, but I think that it's because I want the angels the hell off Earth as soon as possible, and the only way I can do that is get Raphael his wings back."

"May I ask which Watcher will you be praying to?" inquires Raffe in a too-polite tone of voice.

Bryon's pitch drops an octave. "Me? Why, I'll be praying to Sariel, the one who taught me everything I know."

* * *

**Nearly all of you decided that surely, Scruffy would be okay. Because I can't kill off a character that adorable so soon. Pfft. Wanna bet?**

**Alright. So. New character introduction… two in this chapter! Ariel will probably never be that important, but… she's cool, you know? Baelan isn't an actual fallen angel… but he will appear again, which is also cool. **

**I'm not utterly certain what the cherubs actually looked like – the website I got the winged-lion theory off of looked pretty legitimate, with selections from biblical texts, but it can't be verified. However, I liked the idea when I was first investigating angels to picture the cherubs, so I kept it. **

**Mild suggestion that you might want to look up the Watchers on Wikipedia and see what Sariel has to offer. Might help piece things together a little bit. **

**POLL: Nephilim Temple. Chaza. Expectations? Beliefs?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

On my mother's frantic travels around the world, I've been to many so-called "holy" places.

I've seen churches and temples and street corner preachers' houses galore. My mother, hysteric with her lust to repent for a terrible sin she hadn't yet committed, had dragged me from place to place in order to confess to anyone willing to listen to her illusions of demons. Every chapel I'd sat in, anxiously awaiting my mother to emerge from the priest's corner, had a vague feeling of serenity. Perhaps it was the high ceilings and majestic artwork framed on the walls. Perhaps it was the murmured prayers issued from the lips of desperate sinners or the Latin chants of a deacon's pleas. Perhaps it was the sensation that, surely here, my mother's demons would find neither her nor me.

This empty chamber has an utterly different taste in the air.

It's almost as if I can feel the breath of another being against my neck, hear its resounding heartbeat in the _clack-clack-clack_ of Bryon's wooden pole against the stone. The softly dancing flame shivering from the crown of the slender incense stick casts only the barest amount of orange light, so little that I don't even see the ghost of the floor beneath my feet. Aside from that beckoning flame, everything is dark and foreboding.

No feeling of calm hugs the air, no sense of hostility scents the wind. If anything, indifference is the only thing that the cavern seems to hold – innocent and speculating indifference, to anyone that may tread down its throat and into the pit of its stomach.

The air is moist, like constricting damp hands. If it had been any other cave, I'm certain somewhere a slow and steady drip would sound, trickling from the ceiling down a stalactite. So, here, in the belly of the earth, so near to its reverberating heart, I find myself counting my breaths and setting my footsteps in tune with Bryon's staff. Clutching to the fire's soft light, it seems that, if I lose either Raffe or Bryon in the shadowed labyrinth, I will never discover them again.

With alacrity, Bryon stops, his flame spluttering at the sudden pause. My knees lock, my halt so abrupt Raffe sets a warm hand on my shoulder to steady me in case I may fall. Perhaps the angel can see the hairs on the back of my neck slowly standing on end, or hear the rapid rattle of my heartbeat. The warmth of his flesh on mine soothes my jumpiness.

Bryon's voice is alien after so long a silence. "Stay here. The ground we plod upon is treacherous."

I dare not break the quiet myself, merely nodding in response. If Raffe does the same, I do not see.

The candle flame moves again in the darkness, bobbing in accordance with Bryon's whisper-soft footsteps. My breath is held for reasons I cannot describe – whatever that man may be doing, there is something unnatural in it. There is a presence here, hanging in the air, an almost bitter spirit flavoring each breath I take.

Bryon stops abruptly, a little further than twenty feet from Raffe and I. He says something in a strange, garbled language that I don't quite catch, lifting the incense stick up to the ceiling.

"What did he say?" I whisper to Raffe, knowing his keen ears will have detected the noise with ease.

"I…" His voice is puzzled, but his speech vibrates his chest. "It's no language I've ever heard before. Strange, though, that he should worship angels. He does not seem the religious nutball type."

"From what he said," I murmur back, "I think he's just drawing on… Saw-ree-el for strength and courage and things like that. Not really worshipping. But trying to be like."

"Hmm," Raffe breathes. There's consideration in his tone, but, before he can retaliate with barbed words, Bryon quits chanting and casts down the incense stick.

Fire roars to life in a vat of oil that reveals itself. At the sudden vengeful heat in the chill of the tunnel, I stumble back slightly. The orange flames halo Bryon, silhouetting him against the orange. After spreading across the long trough of oil, the fire leaps up, snapping at the sky. It bathes an enormous statue in crackling light, spreading a topaz gleam along the slick walls and the damp floor.

The statue crowned by the fire seems startling familiar – everything about the tall, proud angel carved into white marble is as if I'd seen it once upon a dream. His wings are carved from a golden metal, just the very tips marble crescents. Two gold disks make up his eyes. Around his feet, a dragon curls, this one adorned in brass and copper.

Bryon's head tips back to stare up at the angel for mere seconds; his form against the flame adds a menacing gleam to his bronze eyes, despite his serene expression. Then, bowing once to the magnificent pyre, he turns back to Raffe and I, staff clapping against the ground. The cloak he wears flutters a tentative farewell, almost as if mourning a lost friend.

Cocking his head back slightly to admire the roar of the flames and the talons clawing at the gold, Bryon chuckles, "Kinda creepy, isn't it? Though he'd never say it aloud, Sariel himself was scared of his own altar, especially when it was lit like this. Can't say I blame him. It's a beautiful little idol, but honestly, those eyes are scary."

His warm, melodic voice in the darkness of the untouched shadows is like a balm to my nerves, disbanding any sinister thoughts I'd had. The soft flash of Bryon's bronze eyes act like beacons in the darkness, repelling any of my fear.

"Mildly impressive craftwork," Raffe admits begrudgingly. "Monkeys will do anything for their entities, won't they?"

"Not just humans." Bryon tilts his head to one side, blinking in a slow, lazy way. "I believe in God. Perhaps not the way he is depicted by either angels or humans, but I do believe in the Lord."

"Primitive," Raffe scoffs. "For one who claims to be as powerful as you, you definitely have a lot of old ties."

"I may have an old fashioned view on life," Bryon accepts, "but I see it as a vast opportunity, affected by the people you communicate with, the things you do, and the rules you follow, not to mention the ones you disobey. And I'm happy that way, with my indifferent God and my Heaven for all those that do good. What truly interests me is that Ogden did not light a fire. Perhaps he did, and it died down. Both Gadreel and Penemue don't have much oil, I'd imagine, with this blooming war."

"The Nephilim are fighting, too?" I wonder.

"Well, not quite yet." Bryon turns to me, benevolence sparkling in his bronze eyes. "But they're on the human side, if that's what you mean. I've gotten in touch with your Obi – he knows me. I've told him not to worry about the Nephilim should they join him."

"Obi?" My interest peaks. "What is he doing?"

"I'm not utterly certain," Bryon admits, scratching his neck. "You've probably seen him closer to time than I have."

"Oh. Oh, okay. Should we go, then, or will Sariel glare at us some more?"

"Let's go, he is _so_ freaky." Bryon releases a slow breath into the air, his ivory teeth catching the slightest hint of the flame along the pearly surface. "Back into the dark, creepy tunnels. I remember when these Temples were well lit. But I guess that's what being abandoned does to a place."

* * *

A sudden, jarring pain on Ariel's wrist has her whirling, rapidly pinning her to the wall. With a jar of breath, Ariel quickly responds to the abrupt attacker with a quick cut to the stomach. It isn't until the other she-angel blocks her counterattack that Ariel's gaze at last meets those cherry colored eyes.

"What the hell were you trying to pull, Ariel?" Audiat hisses, her teeth bared in a toothy snarl. "In what world does eliminating Bryon assist your personal agenda?"

One of Ariel's eyebrows raise. She blinks in slow, feline confusion, maintaining a perfectly indifferent expression as she stares down at the little angel. "I do not know what you mean."

"Tumblr's exploded," Audiat snaps, her high voice like daggers against Ariel's peaceful façade. "Hugo, Bryon, and Ogden were all in that forest that you released the cherubs on. Hugo's pissed off like nobody's business because Scruffy was hurt, and Baelan had to go back down to hell to escape the swarm. Bryon's pissed that you endangered his nieces."

Throughout Audiat's vindictive speech, Ariel's face had slowly lost color, her black wings wilting. Horror gleams in her eyes. The empty hallway is silent for a moment, echoing the rage of Audiat's words. Audiat's chest pumps in and out, slender strands of white hair falling into her face. Warm reddish brown wings shiver threateningly at her sides. Against such blind fury, Ariel's tongue seems clumsy in her mouth, but the words are astonishingly punctual.

"None of them are harmed?" Ariel questions intently, shaking Audiat off her wrist with a mere flick of the arm. "Do we need to send in a medical team? Thea owes me a favor. The Wives can always move in, I know they're nearby."

Audiat steps back, still suspicious. "You didn't know that they were with Raphael?"

Ariel waves a hand dismissively. "Of course not. In what world would I harm Ogden, or Bryon? I have no desire to become an enemy of their followers. Anyone who kills either Bryon or Hugo or even little Ogden finds themselves Target No. One."

"And Penryn, the human's hero?"

"I assumed that the girl could become a martyr for the humans to fight for if she indeed perished, but it seems God isn't smiling upon me."

Audiat crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow, hazel specks dancing. "None of them were seriously injured, lucky for you. Bryon received a few nicks and scrapes, and Scruffy was mortally maimed, but they found sanctuary in the Chaza."

"I see." Ariel nods to herself, connecting the dots. "The forest Chaza? Why would Bryon show Raphael such a secret, even if it is neglected?"

With this, Audiat seems displeased. Her frown is mighty with disapproval. "It seems that beautiful idiot thinks that Raphael can change his ways, because of… _friendship_ and _magic_, that's why."

Ariel snorts in amusement. "He is clever, and he is good, but perhaps he is too good to be a war leader. There comes a time when you must abandon all hope for a person. Raphael is simply too dangerous. I dislike that I am forced to spare his life when it was so close at hand."

"To kill him would be to assist Uriel," Audiat points out. "For the moment, I'd stick to Bryon's plan. I'm not quite sure what it is, but he got rid of us the last time, didn't he?"

"True," Ariel acknowledges. She twists a golden bangle around her wrist until it rubs the skin raw. "I merely hate putting the fate of our aeries in the hands of one so reckless."

* * *

"Hey, Bryon?" Hugo's voice is soft, barely carried over the snapping crackle of the roaring fire the giant had built to light the cavern and to heat it. His fingers caress Scruffy's groggy face, lulling the wolf into a deep sleep.

Bryon lifts his head from the soft stick he'd been whittling at, attentive at the sound of his name. "Yes, Hugo?"

"Can you sing something?" he questions awkwardly. "I mean, like you did in the good old days. The lullaby. You know the likes. Not the sad lullaby. But the hopeful one."

"Of course." Bryon smiles merrily, setting both feet down on the ground and leaning closer to the fire. "Is there any reason behind your request, or is it merely a momentary desire?"

Hugo casts a glance in my direction, though perhaps his gaze is more directed to Raffe than I. The angel does sit beside me, and, with the teasing ploys of the fiery hands, a gaze's intention can be hard to discern.

"I'll tell you later," he decides brusquely.

"Alright." Bryon straightens, tilting his gaze over Ogden's shoulder. "Paige, hon, how about you leave Scruffy's tail alone? Just because he's feeling better doesn't mean he's a hundred percent. I'm sure Raphael would be thrilled to have you play with his wings instead."

"Oh, yes," cajoles Raffe acidly, "let's send the child to go toy with the leathery demon wings and massive scythes! What could possibly go wrong?"

"Well, then, sourpuss, she can come play with my cloak." Unaffected by Raffe's taunting, Bryon slips it off his shoulders and extends it to Paige. "You wanna try it on for size?"

Grinning tautly, Paige's wobbly legs hold her in a standing position. The sight of her glee brings a matching smile to my face, and gratitude for Bryon's fatherly attitude towards her demonic appearance. Ungracefully tripping to his side, she knots her fingers into the silky fabric. Patiently, Bryon helps her clasp it at her chest, teaching her how to use it for "later use". And then little Paige is gone, brown cloak swishing behind her like a wedding veil. Both Bryon's and Raffe's eyes seem to follow the sound of her footsteps.

With a contented sigh, Bryon turns back to the fire. His ripped shirt allows views of the muscles flexing beneath the fabric. The smile in his eyes is nearly as blinding as the smile on his lips. "Now, Hugo, you said you wanted the lullaby, correct?"

"Yep." Hugo fondles Scruffy's ears, voice still quiet. "You know, the one you'd sing to me when I was a kid."

Turning towards Raffe and I, Bryon forewarns, "Though some like my voice, others hate it with a burning passion. I'm not promising sincere enjoyment nor absolute hatred, but I figured it would be nice to tell you in advance."

"I'm interested," I confess, ghost of a smile touching my lips.

Awkwardly blushing, Bryon looks into the heart of the fire, his long lashes catching their golden reflection. He clears his throat, and begins to sing.

His voice is just as beautiful as Hugo had painted it to be. Sharp as a razor and yet warm like folds of fragrant laundry fresh from the dryer, it holds a strange power to it. I find myself transfixed by the beautiful vibrations and tough steel tones of Bryon's voice. It almost awakens memories of happier days, days when my father would laugh at my mother's jokes, days when I was content with watching whatever my babysitter put on, days before I had to worry about angels attacking my homeland.

"_I hear the wind call my name_," Bryon sings, the emotion he places in every word like a roll of thunder. "_A sound that leads me home again! It sparks up a fire, a flame that still burns. To you, I will always return._"

Taking a deep breath, he launches into the second verse, one with equal beauty. "_I know the road is long, but where you are is home. Wherever you stay, I'll find a way!_"

Ogden sways to the beat, blissful expression consuming his face.

"_I'll run like the river, I'll follow the sun! I'll fly like an eagle to where I belong! I can't stand the distance, I can't dream alone! I can't wait to see you, yes I'm on my way home. _

"_Now I know it's true, my every road leads to you. And in the hour of darkness, your light gets me through. _

"_You run like the river, you shine like the sun. You fly like an eagle, yeah you are the one. I've seen every sunset, and with all that I've learned…_"

Bryon swallows and shuts his eyes to conceal the tears I'd seen glistening on the surface of his bronze irises. Heartbreak is what fashions the emotion in the last line, not the same powerful determination found throughout the rest of the tune.

"_Oh, it's to you, I will always, always… return._"

Silence hangs like a tarp over the fireside. Even Raffe deems the song worthy of no sarcastic comments. Slowly, Bryon's eyes peel open, but he looks nowhere but the heart of the fire. At long last, Hugo speaks, but his voice is tired and foggy with exhaustion as his head slowly droops to fall against his wolf's bandaged chest.

"I'm so glad that you incorporated that in the soundtrack," he yawns. "Beautiful song. My favorite. The other one's too sad. Too creepy. Just… keep singing that one, please."

Bryon smiles brittlely. "I'll do my best, Hugo. Goodnight, my friend." Then, cracking his shoulder muscles with a swift jerk, he stands. "We should all follow his example and get some rest. There's no way to tell time here, really, so getting sleep now would be as good as getting sleep any other. I'll take first watch."

"I'll take second," I volunteer.

"Third," rumbles Raffe. He points a finger at Hugo. "He can take fourth, and Ogden can take fifth, if we can sleep that long."

"I'll take fourth again," offers Bryon, locking gaze with Raffe. "It's no biggy. Let the poor boy sleep, and Scruffy, too. You can't wake one up without alerting the other."

"Fine," Raffe relents, surprisingly not fighting Bryon over his ruling. Judging by Bryon's raised eyebrows, I'm not the only one that's surprised. "But it's your own senses you're dulling."

* * *

Again, I face a lucid dream, and this time, I recognize one of the people.

_It's a party, a frivolous, frilly party. The angels sway to the beat of music I've never heard the likes of before, wearing strange clothes and bizarre fashions. Almost as if the winged idiots lack the creativity to create another layout, the setup is virtually identical to the party I'd attended at the aerie – strangely dressed humans offering bubbling drinks to chatting angels, a band of musicians playing on bizarre instruments creating twangy and unpleasant harmony, and a raised area for the muscled warriors, who, as I notice with explicit interest, are all shirtless, excluding two females that trot among the ranks. _

_The females. That's the only thing missing from the party. There are no human stand-ins for the vacant she-angels. The only two are these finely dressed women warriors. _

_It seems that the focus of the dream is the she-angels. _

_One of them is dark in color, her nearly black skin crisscrossed with silvery scars along the forearms and chest. Her robes are low, but not to expose breast. She bears her battle wounds with more pride than she does her exotic beauty. Chocolate brown eyes cunningly dart around the room. A golden necklace rings her neck, and matching bracelets adorn her arms. Close-cropped black hair is crowned with a single circlet of gold. Her wings, though folded tightly against her back, seem to be black with metallic zebra stripes along the feathers. _

_She is in an intense discussion with an angel draped in topaz and gold. His jaw is broad and his face is arrogant even at first glance. The fragments of their intense conversation hone in the dream, allowing me to hear her rich voice and his cold one. _

_"—stubborn and insolent," the topaz angel spits. "Look around, Ariel! We have been sliced in half by your tenacious pride. The job of the females is what it has always been. Why are you now so controversial to the –"_

_"The code this, the code that," the she-angel snaps, evidently Ariel. "Look at the humans, Gabriel. Look at the one that rides the wolf, cutting down angel after angel. Her bronze eyes burn and she shows no mercy. If a female monkey can do that, than so can female angels."_

_"Why do you insist on living separately?" demands Gabriel. His grip on the delicate glass in one hand tightens. "Are you so foolish as to believe that having separate living quarters will even the balance of sexes?"_

_"So you admit there is an imbalance in sexes," Ariel presses triumphantly. "And, to answer your question, your drunken warriors are still superior to us in two respects: you are better at losing and better at drinking. When a fool with more muscles than brains drinks, she-angels pay the consequences without apology nor regret wasted upon us when they at last emerge sober."_

_"So the difficulties of maintaining drunkards have warded you off," continues Gabriel spitefully, but the conversation had already faded for me to hear the rest of his argument. The focus of my dream soon shifts from one she-angel to the other. _

_Unlike the first female angel, which had maintained a warrior-like quality like the rest of the archangels, this pale one is smaller, petite. Instead of tall, graceful, and lithe, she's rounder and seemingly carved from a much gentler substance than the marble making up the rest of the archangels. Her smile is soft, her voice high like a lullaby, and her cherry red eyes are bright with laughter. Unlike Josiah's crimson eyes, hers are gentle, dancing with dark pinks and maroons alongside the browns and reds. Her laughter is like the song of little twinkling fairies, her innocence seemingly obvious. It doesn't appear to be a mask – she seems to be a lot like Paige, honestly, with a smile and a compliment for everyone. In a world of angels, though, that could be dangerous, and I find myself fearing for her._

_The drunken angel slouching in the chair beside her does little to comfort me, considering I know him so very well. _

_Raffe swings his glass into the air, allowing dark liquid to spill over the edge of his chalice. His bare caramel skin allows clear sight of the muscles flexing sinuously beneath his silky hide, boasting upon their full, rich completion. There is nothing in his eyes but dumb drunken thoughts, nothing but emptiness. He's a hollow husk of the glorious angel Pooky Bear portrays him to be. But, although his sword thinks of him as deadly when most powerful, some primal female instinct tells me that his testosterone is being kindled by his high, and that a wrong word can lead to this innocent angel's demise or shame at Raffe's hand._

_"So… you've got all the Nephilim now?" the female questions politely, her high voice frail and melodic, like a thrush's whistling song. "After all those years of hunting?"_

_"Most of them." With slurred words and a belch, Raffe continues, spilling more alcohol onto his bare chiseled chest. "Got a few bastards that get away from me every time. Little demons think they can get away with it. Demons!"_

_"Ah." The she-angel seems increasingly uncomfortable, as if she's just now realizing a completely wasted Raffe might be dangerous to be around. I can't help but agreeing with her, praying she'll escape. "So, erm, have these Nephilim really done anything to earn the title 'demon'? They are just spawned with the Daughters of Men, are they not?"_

_I feel like screaming for her to escape while she can as Raffe's pinpoint pupils narrow even further. "They sent my men to hell. They go to hell, too."_

_"Of course." The she-angel's feet shuffle, her red roan wings awkwardly unfolding and refolding in a gesture of nervousness. "Do you have any idea where any of these Nephilim may be hiding?"_

_"Can I offer you anything more to drink, sir?" offers a new member of the conversation, voice humming with familiarity. At the sound of him, the she-angel jerks her head up, relaxing her shoulders and stilling her wings. Relief gleams in those beautiful reddish eyes, alongside softer smitten emotions. _

_Bryon steps up to Raffe in a bizarre waiter's outfit, balancing a disk stacked with fragile glass chalices on one hand. Though he looks ten years younger, in his lower twenties, it's definitely Bryon. He casts one reassuring glance in the she-angel's direction, and it dawns upon me: the she-angel believes that, should the need arise, Bryon can help fight Raffe off. Questions are quickly smothered by my interest in the continued conversation._

_"Eh? Oh, yes, just sit tight, I'll get one." Raffe drops his glass on the floor, shattering it in a million pieces and causing the liquid to puddle around his feet. "You see," he explains as he gropes the air to find another goblet of alcohol, "I've got this feeling like they're watching me." Bryon moves closer to Raffe, guiding the glasses to his blind hand. "Right under my nose."_

_The she-angel's face contorts a bit, as if she's concealing laughter behind those round cheeks. "I'm sure you'll catch them eventually," she assures, smiling at Raffe in order to allow some mirth to escape. _

_"Will that be all, sir?" Bryon questions, his civil professionalism astounding to hear in the face of the drunken Raffe._

_"No." Raffe belches again. "Leave me the tray, and then get out."_

_"Of course." Bryon gently sets it down on the table beside Raffe, within arm's reach of his awkward gropes. _

_"Of course, _sir_," Raffe corrects, face sharpening. _

_"Yes, sir," Bryon obeys, half-bowing once, before slinking backwards into the shadows with a poorly concealed smirk coloring his expression. The she-angel sucks in her cheeks, gazing intently at the floor while Raffe blabs onwards about demons and Watchers and Nephilim. She casts Bryon in the shadows one last glance before backing away from Raffe, disappearing into the crowd. _

_The most frightening thing is that Raffe continues talking, as if she'd never left._

* * *

A gentle touch on the shoulder awakens me. Moaning softly beneath my breath, I curl my back, struggling to tighten into a tighter ball and ignore the beckons of the person interrupting my dreams. After a distant chuckle, the touch comes again, prodding harder into my shoulder.

"What is it?" I whisper to the awaiting Bryon, stretching in my mess of smelly blankets like a cat.

"Your watch," he informs quietly. "I'm sorry, I waited as long as I could. Your turn now. If you get bored, you don't have to stay stationary – you can always wander; if anything is quiet enough to sneak up on Raphael and I, it deserves to catch us by surprise."

"What do you mean?" I groan as I arch my back, popping bones back into place.

"I mean you don't have to just sit on a rock for a few hours like I did." Bryon takes my hand and helps pull me to my feet. "Explore a bit, go visit Ogden in his forge, wander the halls of this fine city. If you get lost, we'll find you eventually."

"Okay." I yawn broadly, blinking the sleep from my eyes. "Where is Ogden again?"

"His forge." Bryon gestures deep into the bowels of the dark, angling his finger up the walls. In one of the ornate buildings carved into the stone, a light shines, a tunnel leading to somewhere else. I squint at the light. "You should be able to reach him with much ease. He likes being in the sunlight when he works, so he's got a place close to the surface. Lots of windows. It looks like a temple from the surface."

"Alright. I could use some sunlight." Cracking my shoulder, I peer curiously at Bryon. He's already striding off, heading towards his personal spot, but it seems necessary to stop him, to beckon him over. "Hey, Bryon?"

Pausing immediately, Bryon pivots and faces me, the bags beneath his eyes not dampening their patient glow. "Yes, Penryn?"

"I… this is going to sound weird."

Bryon chuckles dryly. "It's a bit harder than you may think to catch me off guard."

In this world of demons and angels, he has a point. But this new dreaming ability I'm developing – it seems to be a step further than this hell on earth. I hope that this talent is all just a mistake, and that my words will not register when compared to the truth.

"Well, I had a dream about you," I inform him, glancing once towards the ground once. "It was weird. I mean, it looked like one of the angel parties, but everything was unlike anything I'd seen before. You were there, a waiter, and you looked younger. A bit older than me. There was Raffe, who was wasted as hell, and this other angel with white hair."

"Ah." Bryon smiles bittersweetly. "Yes. That happened millennia ago, the first time the angels inhabited earth in my lifespan. Back then, we had a plan. It was simplistic, but it got the job done."

"What plan?"

Bryon shifts his weight, leaning on his staff. "The golden rule of human and angel interactions is this: angels don't remember humans. It is a fault of theirs. Of course, if I remembered every cow I passed while walking through a field of livestock, I would be a bit off my rocker. But then again, cows aren't trying to kill me. Back in those days, even angels recognized that clever people could have a certain danger level. A person could play a thousand roles and gain so much information. They could be the one that bitterly stabbed an angel and the one that dressed his wounds. The Wives, especially, rejoiced in this sort of deceptive warfare. I used it too – as Raphael's personal servant for, what, eight years, I could warn the Nephilim whenever he went out hunting and where he was headed. It sacrificed much of my freedom and happiness, but it hailed prosperity for the Nephilim."

I blink. "So Raffe doesn't even slightly remember that?"

Tossing up his head, Bryon laughs a little louder than necessary. "You've seen him as well as I. He knows me by the name 'Simon', my alter ego. Before he went AWOL, I was his personal servant this go-round as well. It is proof of the golden rule."

"You got rid of the angels the first time through?" I confirm, interest mounting.

"Sent them back to heaven." Bryon's expression tightens into some sort of acute pain. "Every last one of them."

"Will you do it this time, too?"

With a sly smile and blinking bronze eyes, Bryon laughs darkly. "Oh, Penryn, this time, they're not even going to have an entire year lounging on this planet."

"Alright." I nod, a sudden confidence in Bryon's abilities coming to me like a slap to the face. Two things dawn on me in absolute unison: Bryon, though he may be kind and merciful towards Raffe, has a powerful belligerence directed towards angels, and that I now respect him as the leader of our group.

* * *

**So, yeah. Bryon and Bryon's past. With all hope, he should become less of a riddle soon. There were quite a few clues as to his identity in this chapter, if you searched enough. Let's play a game and see if anyone can spot all of them. HEAR THAT? GAME RIGHT HERE. **

**What happened to FallenAngel, Melissa, Nini, Cassie? Where are your reviews? Have you died? I've been waiting for them to roll in, checking my emails as constantly as possible, but… you're lost. Oh, and Emi, welcome to the family.**

**Also: I'm on a little vacation nestled in the middle of no and where, so the Wi-Fi is scarce and weak. However, in the middle of no and where, people that do have Wi-Fi don't really know how to lock it, so all I need to do is a little sneaky behaviors and access someone else's internet. Whatever for my readers, right?**

**POLL: Sariel, the Watcher with metallic golden eyes and a coppery bronze dragon curled around his feet. Hmm. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

Though the climb had been strenuous, the sight awaiting me at the peak of the bejeweled towers and long carpeted stairwells is nearly as beautiful as the climb itself. Nephilim seem to be great artists and builders – it seems that nothing was treated without care, no wall left untouched by the tender fingers of creativity nor any floors left without intricate tile-work or thick carpets designed specifically for the buildup of static electricity.

But now, standing in the carved arch of a doorway leading to this fantastical room, my breath is stolen. Yellow stone carves the room up, the lazily swirling lines of the stone shaded in colors like beige and brown. The ceiling is pure glass, strong metal beams connecting the plates reinforcing the strength in each pane. The geometric design spreads fey rainbows over the soft marble floor even without the assistance of the other stained glass windows, the early morning light from above already affecting the world below.

There are three stained glass windows, as directly ahead of me as can be in a circular room. The one on the right is a monstrous black wolf with snowy white wings, inky fangs bared in a chilling grin. It stands on two legs as if attacking, in no natural position a wolf could be found in. On the other side is a white wolf with black bat wings, like a fallen angel of sorts. Its gruesome grin has a splash of red around the mouth, as if showing that, despite its somewhat calmer position, it is a killer as well. The center panel depicts a woman with two unique wings made of clockwork, her brown hair caught in a violent storm of wind.

Mouth falling open, I wander into the center of the room, eyes wide. The ethereal rainbows flutter over my skin as I reach my arms out to touch their delicate feathers. Almost as if chiding me for even attempting, they gently drift just out of reach.

But it my time of gawking is cut short by a little ovular object that rolls in through one of the adjoining arches, beeping like a time bomb.

It's copper and mechanical, matching perfectly with Hugo's steampunk theme. Rings on the surface twist and writhe, as if the machine is launching into violent spasms at the sight of me. It yelps for reassurance, the beeping growing gradually louder until it's a rude blare. At first, only annoyance is my only reaction; this is obviously Hugo's contraption, a little egg meant to protect someone from unwanted guests.

The next thought dawns on me rather aggressively, shaking my view of the annoying ovular device as it rolls to and fro across the room like a windup mouse pumped with caffeine.

My mother's eggs.

The ache in my head does not leave, even when Ogden emerges from the mouth of the same corridor. His face is smeared with ash and charcoal marks color his ratty apron. New wrenches and other assorted materials hang from his pockets, their reflections in the sunlight waving oily hellos. It's almost as if he can see my internal distress, clear across my face. The old man hobbles to my side, concern bunching his bushy eyebrows and frowning deeper than ever before.

"Ogden, what is that?" I whisper, jabbing a finger at the egg. It's stopped yelping at his presence, now quietly rolling around and slamming into stone walls.

His eyes widen, fat lips parting slightly. With mounting comprehension, Ogden turns his face back to me, a touch of sorrow coloring his thick chocolaty brown eyes. Touching a coarse hand to my shoulder, he beckons me back down the tunnel he'd appeared from, hobbling gait slowing his stride considerably. I follow numbly without a problem.

We reach another large chamber, this one darker than the last, more subject to the shadows' forlorn grip. On one side of the dark room, a smoldering forge sits, the embers growling at me with flares of orange light. Tools are aligned on hooks on a corresponding wall, and beautiful creations are being left to cool. From the ceiling hang other deft works of art, delicate metal creations created by plates of iron and silver and gold joining together to create a puppet in black, grey, or yellow. On the other side of the dark room, computers sit, screens all a mess of waiting screen bubbles. One flat screen TV seems to be hooked up to a keyboard, creating a monster computer.

Ogden strides up to the immaculate computers. Hunching over, his fingers rattle over the keys. Words appear on the large screen, easily readable.

_The Eggs are one of Hugo's inventions. They're relatively small and unnoticeable, with many different settings. They're used to protect people._

I swallow, choking down the lump in my throat. "Ogden… did you ever meet my mother on any of your wanders?"

Guilt consumes his face, but his expression is quickly dominated with an ancient pity. Turning back to the computer screens, he types slowly, each peck of a key chosen carefully.

_I've never met her. Your father, I have, but not your mother. Hugo did do business with your mother. She bought a dozen of the Eggs to protect her baby – I guess you – from something. Apparently, she never said what. _

"Probably because 'it' never existed," I mutter darkly, but in such a low volume that Ogden couldn't possibly hear it if he tried. Clearing my throat, I inquire, "How did you know my father? Was he involved in… all this?"

It seems logical that my mom would trust the mendacious boy with steampunk inventions and a giant wolf plodding around his feet, but not my dad. The man refused to read us my favorite fairytale as a kid; it was one about a valiant knight slaying a malevolent dragon, but he never got past his prejudice against fantasy. Personally, I think Mom's demons scared him even further into disbelief.

The words on screen puzzle me further.

_Your father was a very clever man. He and Hugo would scheme together like a pair of supervillains. However, your dad was much more into modern electricity and technology and things, while Hugo – need I even say? Hugo wanted his steampunk. Like Hugo, your father had me make his parts. We spoke often, until he domesticated and started toning the fantasy down to live with your mom, to have you and your sister. If he never told you about his other life, I can't, either. I'm not the right person. Forgive me._

Swiveling away from the keyboard, Ogden stares at me with large brown eyes and a pleading expression I simply can't ignore.

"Who would be the right person?" I sigh.

_Family would probably be the best to inform you._

"Alright," I grumble grouchily, waving a hand in reluctant defeat. Even if she knows something about my father before he dated her, she'd never say. "What are you doing, anyway?"

_Making parts for Hugo. He wants another tempered sword ready, for whatever reason. Hugo fights with a bow. Also, he wants me to prepare feathers for Bryon – don't even ask about that._

"He's strange," I intone, shrugging. "I'm mostly just glad that Scruffy's okay. Hey, do you know about the stained glass windows in that main room there? I saw a few similar symbols climbing up here."

Ogden nods knowingly, prodding a finger to the sky. _Some sort of universal symbol thing. It's one of the Nephilim beliefs or traditions or something – it traditionally protects a place. The figures are supposed to represent how life really is. Good cloaked in black and bad cloaked in white, that sort of thing – since they're usually visualized as monsters, Nephilim are into the whole "don't judge a book by its cover thing". The woman is the Clockwork Angel. _

"What is the –" Ogden extends a hand to tell me he understands, hushing my question.

_The Clockwork Angel is more a legend than anything else. An old wives' tale._ Ogden smirks as if he'd just amused himself. _Supposedly, it's an ordinary woman with a pair of lightweight wings made of clockwork. There have been numerous "sightings" throughout the centuries, leading some to believe that the Clockwork Angel has power over time. Many of the Nephilim respect her as a god, a prophecy that's certain to come true – evidently, in the darkest hour when their light has gone out, she'll come. Hugo wants to be the one to make the "time-traveling" wings, so he's devoted himself to create the perfect pair of clockwork-type wings. I've got a pair, I brought them up here to study the gears. They're against the wall there._ He gestures towards a shadowed corner of the room.

Curiosity mounts as I stride over the place Ogden had waved me into, eyes widening at the sight of what almost seems like a backpack of black metal. Cautiously, I squat beside it. The gears beneath tick at me, almost as if it's trying to frighten me off. Long, slender iron strips like feathers hide the gears.

Ogden's lumbering footsteps warn me of his approach. Looping two fingers through a black leather strap, he lifts the contraption effortlessly, hefting it to a nearby table to rest it upon. Smiling invitingly at me, he begins to unfurl the beautiful set.

It's a strange thing, both wings having a rather magnificent pulchritude about them. The wings of the machine are meant to be folded on the back like a pack, hidden until actual use. Separate of this metal masterpiece are two long iron rods to be strapped along the backs of the arms, with gears at the joints to allow smooth movement. The pack, which is meant to be stationed firmly between the shoulder blades and stretching down to the lower back, is attached to these rods by the crests of the wings. As the wings unfurl, a set of tiny wheels follow grooves on the rods until it unfolds at a massive length and locks into position. I see now that, while in the pack, the wings hadn't just been folded, but instead, all the feathers had been pancaked on top of one another. As Ogden demonstrates, the long pieces of metal used for the primary feathers are nearly five feet in length. The length of the one wing he fully unfurls is nearly fifteen feet from feathertip to joint.

"Hugo made this?" I breathe, not quite connecting these beautiful shining works of art to that puerile face. Ogden nods in confirmation, shrugging to show his own bewilderment.

"How do they work?" My curiosity burns. "It looks too heavy to fly, and, even if the wings followed that rod thing, it'd be difficult to navigate. Also, do you have to unfurl them every time?"

Ogden's fingers rummage the place where the two wings meet for a moment until he touches a button and the other wing flies out to its full capacity, hissing with a _schnick_ of blades. The distant feathertips smash against the stone wall with an irritating clang. He quickly bundles it again, pulling the wing back into its neat position. Then he extends the pack to me.

"You want me to pick that up?" I retreat, throwing up my hands in surrender. "No way. I'm not a bodybuilder."

Ogden grins like a schoolboy and holds the contraption in one hand as if to tease me, still gesturing for me to pick it up.

With a hearty sigh, I secure my hands through the leather straps, gripping the metallic feathers tightly and spreading my legs wide to hold the bulk. Bracing myself for the load of metal about to be mercilessly dumped onto my shoulders, I glance testily at Ogden only to realize that he'd already released the wings, and is standing back with a victorious smirk.

I'm holding the full weight of the wings, and I doubt I'd even need one hand.

With a surprised laugh, I rise from my labored pose, balancing the delicate work of art in my arms. The gleaming feathers are sharpened like razors, as I quickly learn by nicking my finger on a blade. It doesn't really seem to matter – this is unlike nothing I've ever felt before, light as air.

"What is this metal?" I whisper in awe, shifting the wings in my arms. "It seems like it would shatter at the slightest breeze."

Ogden throws up his head laughing. There is a jolly tone thundering in that mirthful chuckle that has me feeling like a fool, as if it's a silly question. Still chortling to himself, Ogden lumbers over to his tool table. An argument blossoms on my tongue as he lifts the largest hammer of them all, turning back to the wings with a glint in his eye.

Ogden slams the head of the hammer into the unfurled wing, the force of his blow sending me stumbling, but, where the hammer had smashed the wing into the ground, there is nothing. Recovering from my falter, I see that the wing hadn't been dented at all. Disbelief rounds my eyes.

"Seriously." I shake my head in awe. "What is this metal?"

Winking at me, Ogden holds his finger to his lips.

* * *

"Raaaffe," I whisper in a singsong tone of voice, drawing out the vowels while poking his cheek. "Oh… _Raaaaaffe_."

His snores don't even falter, continuing on like an elephant being repeatedly ground into pavement with a bulldozer. Drool leaks from the edges of his lips, untidy black hair more a rat's nest than its usual shampoo commercial perfection. The wild splay of his limbs is mildly adorable, in the way a sleeping tiger is sweet – though the cat may be harmless for the time being, wise prey animals still keep their distance.

I suppose that, in the jungle, I wouldn't be a very wise prey animal.

Prodding my finger into his cheek again, I gently poke at the corners of his slack mouth. My voice rises to a pitch it's never hit before on the next singsong taunt. "_Raaaaaaaaffe_."

This time, his snore trembles, and he mutters something in his sleep. I bite the inside of my cheek to contain my laughter, but a small giggle escapes me. Fearing that it might've awakened him, I still. Tenseness keeps me quiet as a mouse. However, as time passes by, Raffe only snores louder than previously, seemingly shaking the earth.

Leaning forward until I'm hovering over his face, I cup one hand on his cheek. "Raffe," I breathe, his name curt one my tongue. He mumbles something unintelligible again, facial expression contorting and relaxing.

I don't even try to conceal my laughter, despite the fact that Scruffy lifts his head from his peaceful sleep. My confidence with the sleeping Raffe grows. Resting my hand on his chest, I bow my head, lips at his ear. "Raaaffe."

Blue peeks through his eyelids, and Raffe awakens with a jolt. Groaning and rubbing at his eyes, Raffe props himself up on one elbow, wings stirring like two tar pools shifting in the darkness. He blinks, staring up at my smirking face – then collapses with a moan, putting a hand over his eyes.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," I tease, prodding him in the temple. "It's your turn to watch."

"How much was I drooling?" he sighs, dragging his hand from his eyes. The barest remain of smoldering embers casts beautiful light on his face, illuminating his full lips and expressive eyes more than ever. Despite the shimmering path his drool had left in its wake, I find his appearance rather arousing, with tousled hair and a dazed gaze – Raffe's morning face is something I wouldn't mind seeing more often.

"A lot." I mask my complex train of thoughts with a smirk. "I won't even mention the snoring. You woke Scruffy up."

"His poor unfortunate soul," Raffe mutters darkly, closing his eyes once more. "A pity you had to see me like this. It'll put a dent in my reputation."

"Aw," I coo, patting his arm in feigned consolation, "don't worry! You look like a little tiger after a long nap. Sleepy and confused and _so_ cute."

One eye of his peels open to stare at me, the dark smirk toying with his lips fostering many a dirty thought. "You compare me to a tiger?" The air hisses and Raffe's form blurs; that is all I know, until a pair of blue eyes are directly before mine. Tingling heat spans the scarce gap. His nasty breath caresses my chin and throat. "I can't imagine why. Would you mind telling me why you think of me as the king of beasts?"

I lean forward slightly instead of balking from his demonstration of his physical prowess. Malaise is now my friend instead of my enemy as Raffe's gaze swims abruptly with uneasiness.

"The lion is the king," I whisper, smiling at him. "The tiger's just the strongest, and the biggest."

"You're right about that," Raffe purrs in the most licentious manner, grinning torridly, his hands slowly skating over the ground to land on the tops of my thighs. My skin crawls and my belly rocks. His statement makes it that much harder to focus on an impervious answer.

"You've got no way to prove that," I point out triumphantly, smirking and cocking my head. With each breath he takes, his broad shoulders flex and muscles bulge.

His hands lethargically climb my thighs, gently roaming up until they rest at my hips. I could be imagining it, but I do believe he inches slightly closer as he cocks his head opposite of mine. "Don't I?"

"Get a room!" Hugo snaps sleepily.

The brusque statement breaks a mood, as if he'd shattered one of the beautiful stained windows from upstairs. Raffe leans away from me, and I blush and scoot further from him. Scruffy still pants with a sloppy, drooling grin, but now, Hugo is awake, too, with a scowl instead of a smile.

"I swear," he grumbles, "there is nothing like two little lovebirds to ruin your sleep. This is the second time. I'm not amused." With a huff, he rolls over, facing the wall. Bemusedly, Scruffy licks his master's ear, as if questioning why he'd gotten so ticked.

Raffe turns back to me awkwardly, his apologetic smile somehow still winsome, despite all the tension in the air. "I'll take watch, then. Get some sleep. You've earned it."

I release a massive yawn, roaring like a tiger myself. "My original plan was to talk to you about loyalties and our current travelling partners and such, but I guess that won't be happening. You just had to wake Hugo up."

"Me?" Raffe's eyebrows lift, displaying his disbelief like a page on a book. "Excuse you, you were the one gasping like a fish out of water."

"I was not gasping," I berate, scowling at him. "You're imagining things."

"Hmm. Maybe. Truthfully, I'm not even sure why you wanted to talk – we're such a good group, the camaraderie is just –"

"I didn't really want to say anything in hopes that you would quiet down," Bryon sighs tiredly, "but Raphael, you're quite loud. Please, I've got to go on watch again."

My voice drops a bit in volume. "Oops. Sorry."

"Get some sleep," Raffe whispers, pulling at a blanket from the place he'd been resting in. With a gentle grip and a soft touch, he eases me to the ground, snuggling me down in his nest. Contentment shines in his eyes as he stares down at me, bundled up like a child.

"I can't move," I inform him, kicking slightly at the raggedy blankets.

"Good," he chuckles, rising. Raffe towers over me like a god, or perhaps a devil. The shadows claim most of his black wings, leaving only the crests to be illuminated by the firelight. Only his eyes gleam. "Now I won't have to worry about you running off. Try to sleep, Penryn, we'll most likely be… doing something tomorrow. Something that requires energy."

"So specific," I mutter, but I nestle tighter into Raffe's nest of blankets. He pads off like a shadow, disappearing into the darkness without a glance back. It's almost as if he is a predator, searching for prey without realizing one's reclining in his den. Sighing deeply, I shut my eyes, relaxing into his bed.

Beneath the wolf odor and the pungent reek of oil, I can't help but notice that Raffe's blankets smell an awful lot like him.

* * *

**Anonymous won the little contest here, even though all the results haven't rolled in. **

**I could add more to this chapter, but I feel like here's a good stopping point. You'll see why next chapter. **

**Hugo is hiding more secrets, this time about Penryn's father and mother. But he did introduce as one to have secrets and not share them, so can we be surprised? No. No we cannot.**

**POLL: The Raffryn, the sweet, sweet Raffryn! Although I love writing it, I try to make it realistic – which means no pointless Raffryn. How do you think I'm doing on Raffryn writing and maintaining each character's personality?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

I laugh at the image on the paper. It shows Scruffy as some sort of mer-wolf, his hind legs a tail rather than paws. The utmost delight on the wolf's face is hilarious.

"Believe it or not," Hugo calls, lifting the torch a bit higher, "that actually became a thing after I posted it online. People started drawing mermaid everyone: mermaid Gabriel, mermaid Thea, mermaid Bryon – oh, man, yours was hilarious." He slaps Bryon on the shoulders with brotherly affection, chuckling heartily to himself. "The caption was: Still no wings."

"They should've given me wings," Bryon sighs with a note of yearning in his voice. "Somebody should draw fan art with me and wings instead of me with a fish tail. I want wings so bad. And no matter how many times I cleverly hint at it, it never happens."

"Really?" As I flip to the next page in Hugo's sketchbook, I meet Bryon's wistful gaze. "You want wings? Why would you like six limbs?"

"Everyone has wings!" Bryon complains pertinaciously, shaking his head from side to side. "I've got artificial wings, of course, but they're a bit of a pain when you need to escape in the nick of time. No, I want real wings, flesh and blood and feathers – or bat wings, I suppose, but that's hardly favorable. Most of all, I want to _fly_. Every other respectable creature has wings. It's not fair."

"Aww," Hugo coos with saccharine empathy, "is it mid-life crisis? Do we need you to find a doctor?"

"Enough of this subject," Bryon cuts off, blatantly refusing to continue. His winglessness must be a tender topic. "What else has he drawn in his precious sketchbook? Anything of interest?"

Since I'm the only one light enough for Scruffy to carry, this morning, Hugo had offered me to ride him during our trek today – apparently, Bryon was going to keep us swiftly moving, which he is. Perched on Scruffy's back, leaning against his neck, I'd been rather comfortable for the entire trip – if Paige feels sleepy, we'll either switch or she'll climb into Bryon's arms. However, it's been rather boring on the wolf's back, until I started rifling through a few of Hugo's things and found the sketchbook. He'd said I could take a look, and so I did.

Now, I flip back through the pages I've already viewed, searching for a particular image. "There was one of Scruffy as a human and Hugo as a wolf. That was pretty interesting."

"Oh, yes!" Delight sugars Hugo's voice. "My wolves! That became a thing, too – everyone was drawing everybody as wolves, and all wolves as people. Strange, it was actually one of my first drawings, Scruffy as a human. I was just a curious little boy that was trying to show the world how I thought Scruffy would look."

Long lashes quivering, Bryon gasps and turns to Hugo. "I remember that!" he rejoices. "He looked a lot like your brother, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Hugo realizes in a startled tone of voice. "Yeah, I suppose he does. I suppose Scruffy reminds me of my brother, in a way." He pats Scruffy's flank, grinning warmly at the wolf. In turn, his mutt licks up the side of Hugo's face.

"What's the story with you two, anyway?" Flipping back to my prior position in the huge sketchbook, I continue rifling through the pictures, awed by the emotion caught in each pencil drawing. "Not Scruffy and you, but your brother. You don't seem to talk very much about him."

"Well…" Hugo scratches at the back of his neck, discomfort found in his exhale of breath. "It brings back childhood memories, y'know? But I trust you now, congrats, so I suppose I'll fess up. As a prize. To give away a secret."

I lean forward eagerly, smiling encouragingly at him, an action prompted more by curiosity than any whim of compassion for his stage fright.

Hugo swallows, resting one hand on Scruffy's flank for inspiration. "What happened is he was nice to a hurt she-angel that crash-landed in our backyard. But even after she was better, she kept coming back, you know? Like there was something our pathetic village had to offer her. After a few visits, it was clear that she had fallen in love with my brother. Now, even though he wasn't the slightest bit interested in her, the archangels got all pissed when they caught wind of that. Like, severely pissed. Apparently, even though she-angels are barren and can't produce any Nephilim, love was and is strictly forbidden.

"So they released hellfire on our little village to exterminate my brother, killing everyone living there in the process. Everyone but me. There was flame – flame everywhere. I'll have to show a clip of hellfire from YouTube, it's really, really scary and supernatural. People were swallowed whole by the beasts brought to life by the inferno. I only survived because – he and I were – I was – well, we were running from the hellfire, my brother and I, and we'd almost made it…" Hugo takes a deep breath, remaining quiet for a second.

"You don't have to continue," Bryon consoles, placing a broad hand on Hugo's shoulder. The veracious sympathy and raw pain in his own gaze tells that he, too, had experienced tragedy from the event.

"I owe it to Penryn to finish up." Hugo squares his shoulders and looks me in the eye. "I fell behind. I was only six or so, of course I did. The fire was snarling at my feet, and one of its claws sank into my heel – ever heard the term Achilles' heel? – and dragged me to the ground. I don't really remember what happened there – it was going really fast and such, plus I was facing extreme agony. But I do remember my brother grabbing my foot where the fire had got me, and it spreading to him instead. I remember his tortured expression as the hellfire engulfed him, and his anguished screams as the fiery monsters sliced into his soul."

"The hellfire demons are merciless," murmurs Raffe, something close to empathy coloring his tone. "They dance in hell itself, and deal out death with every roar."

"Yeah." Hugo nods, eyes swimming with the ghosts of his past. "Yeah, what you said. Those bastards got Ivan. The she-angel that'd fallen for him swooped down and scooped me up, taking me far from the danger radius. She broke down crying afterwards, and wouldn't respond to any stimulus. I was bawling, too, but I knew I had to get out of there before more angels or more hellfire arrived. Scruffy appeared for the first time, that little kooky wolf. He just sort of popped up on the distant ridge and loped over to me. I'm not really sure why I trusted him, I just know I did. Scruffy took me to Bryon, and the rest… the rest is history. I drank Nephilim blood to extend my life, so I could hunt down the angels that killed my brother."

"Nephilim blood?" Raffe's inquisitiveness is clear in his blue eyes. "That extends human life?"

"Uh huh." Hugo's head bobs in confirmation. "Certain Nephilim live long lives, right? Well, when certain humans – it doesn't always work, not on all people – drink Nephilim blood, they have long lives, too. Some sort of reaction in the blood. I don't know, it's hard to study, haven't been able to nail it down yet. The Wives drank some, that's why a lot of them are still around. Must've been awkward, to suck some blood from your son's arm. But we're getting off point. I decided revenge wasn't worth. I became a semi-peaceful wanderer with a hate for archangels. And here I am today."

"Oh." I don't know what to say to that. An awkward silence consumes the moment.

"The she-angel you spoke of," Raffe proposes slowly, "was her name Janiel?"

Hugo purses his lips, brow furrowing. "You know, I can't be certain, but I think so. We always used to just call her by nicknames, things like 'Feathers' or 'Pigeon'."

"Janiel was insane." Raffe's voice is dark. "She went insane, at least. That she-angel was responsible for nearly a hundred angelic deaths. She had the skulls all stacked up against one wall, the feathers of the particular angel glued to the bone with their own body fluids. If we hadn't discovered her, she would've exterminated an entire aerie."

"It's a funny thing, what people will do for love," Bryon thrums, his mercurial gaze distant, "and what they'll do to avenge a love lost."

Awkwardly, I turn back to the sketchbook as everyone else falls silent. The frayed pages all hold something special: Jane and Scruffy loping side by side, a lion and a wolf reclining in the sun, an angel caught in flight, multiple sexy pictures of Bay and diagrams of Bay's wings, a detailed dragon's eyeball close-up, and a terrifying demon with ruby red lips.

"What the hell." My voice raises a pitch, adopting a reedy quality. Raffe looks at me with a question in his eyes. In response, I lift Hugo's notebook to show the picture of the demon.

"Oh." Embarrassment colors Hugo's voice. "That. Yeah, it's my attempt on drawing Lucius – it's difficult because to look into his eyes causes madness. Unfortunately, that's his deal with many travelers. Lucius likes madness a lot."

"I've heard of Lucius," Raffe acknowledges with a nod of his head. "There are many rumors, including that he's Satan's son. My men would brag about glimpsing him beneath the willow grow he was supposed to haunt, but they were all so wasted they were just seeing things."

"He's the son of Satan, yeah," Hugo approves, smiling at Raffe's drunk warriors. "Sort of like an anti-Nephilim. Believe it or not, he's got a brother that's even more gruesome looking. But does Luther try to lure souls down into hell or torture humans into insanity? No. No, he does not. He actually is a YouTube gamer, but he always wears a mask. The 'V For Vendetta' mask. Cool guy. I like him."

My fingers trace the disturbing image sketched onto the paper. Lucius has a sharp, angular face, as if blades are implanted beneath his deathly pale skin, ready to slice through at the slightest prod. Everything about him is white – white skin, white hair, white suit – except his horrid eyes, his black wings, and his red lips. The glossy crimson lips and pinpoint scarlet pupils are the only real colors on the page, vividly exaggerated by the plaintive black and white setting. His smile stretches to an unnatural width, almost like the Joker's crazy grin. The black wings splayed slightly behind him are even more hellish than Raffe's – instead of a mere row of scythes, all of Lucius's wings are covered in little hooks and needles, like sheets of thorns. The eyes aren't truly eyes at all – two inky beetles are caught mid-twitch in the pits of his face, their legs his eyelashes. Two red specks on the oily shells are evidently meant to be the pupils. His appearance sends a shiver through me, a shiver that sparks Scruffy's curiosity.

Scruffy mewls with a question, twisting his head about. From my perch on his back, I pat his shoulder reassuringly. I rock to his gait, leaning against his neck. Huffing with contentment as I apparently hit the perfect spot on his shoulder, Scruffy relaxes once more, plodding onward just the same.

"He's an ugly fellow," Raffe harrumphs. "Looks like he's wearing lipstick, doesn't it?"

Hugo throws his head back in a laugh. "Truth be told, I'm not totally sure he doesn't wear lipstick. Imagine that, though: son of Satan, going through his average beautifying procedure." His laugh grows more boisterous. "If somebody did a tutorial, I would marry them."

"Looks like blood to me," I comment skeptically, not seeing wear their lipstick angle could come in.

"That's more likely the answer," Bryon sighs grimly. "I suppose we can ask him."

My skin crawls, my gaze landing on Bryon's broad back. In a low, dangerous tone, Raffe inquires, "What do you mean by that?"

Instead of Bryon, Hugo speaks up again. "Lucius is a deal-maker, a lot like me. He can give you almost anything, anything in the universe, but he requires something in return. And the deals are always barbed; in the end, it's only ever Lucius that wins. At least I'm somewhat honest. We're in the company of the only person who's ever forged a successful bargain with him."

Eyes growing wide, I turn to Bryon and his impassive tranquility. "You?" I whisper.

Bryon snickers richly, glancing over his shoulder at me. "I'm too much of a softie to deal with demons – that, I know. No, Ogden's done it before."

Ogden beams at me and waves, flailing his broad palm through the air.

"So, why are we going to be able to ask Lucius about his lips?" Raffe repeats, eyes narrowed. The tips of his scythes peak slightly from his black wings, itching to emerge.

"Because he should be more willing to cooperate," explains Bryon with a tone of reluctance directed towards his plan, "if we have Penryn with us. You see, Paige is like nothing I've ever seen before – sorry, child, it's true." He strokes my baby girl's hair from her face in apology, taking her little hand in his. "However, Lucius will be able to heal her and tell us how to help other people like Paige. We could save not only your sister, Penryn, but all the other children as well if we risk a little bit."

The only thing breaking the awkward silence is Bryon's tapping staff and Scruffy's jovial pants. All eyes fly towards me, and the aura shifts. This idea could be vetoed within a moment by my rule, and everyone would be sent scrabbling for a new strategy. Or I could consent, and risk my neck with this fearsome demon creature.

"It sounds like an okay plan," I decide uncertainly, "and I trust that it must be the only option. But I don't understand one thing – you said it'd be easier if you had me with you to negotiate, right? What the hell does that mean?"

Hugo's voice is oddly crackly. "Do you remember when I told you I was afraid of your mother's demon?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My hand, which had been caressing Scruffy gently, knots tightly in his fur. I meet Hugo's coppery gaze, staring deep into the pools of reluctance and hidden fear.

"No," I whisper. "No way."

"Yes," sighs Bryon in an ancient tone of voice. "Yes way."

"You see," Hugo explains gently, "your mother was in a very… unique situation. The key to handling Lucius is not to succumb to what he desires, not to put him in any sort position of power, no way to con you. She never – never was the most stable of women, even when she did work for the government. And, well, this has probably never come up in a fireside conversation, but your father quite literally died once. Flat line. Soul was elsewhere. From what he'd been able to figure after hearing her babbling afterwards, Lucius had appeared to her with that goddamned deck of cards and offered her a deal. He would revive her lost loved one if she… did something. I don't know, he always keeps his deals secretive. Probably would've gone pretty smoothly if she hadn't looked into his eyes and… you know the rest."

Scruffy whines once, bringing about the realization that I'm ripping his fur from his shoulder. My fists only unclench slightly, still remaining tense. Sweat beads over my forehead, and my hands shiver and shake. "You're telling me my mother's demon… existed. That there's actually things that hunt her. That it could be the reason she hurt Paige."

"It's a lot to take in." Bryon slows his pace, striding beside Scruffy. One of his broad hands covers mine, the warm, coarse flesh somewhat of a comfort. His eyes are molten bronze, their softness incomparable. "This world can be overwhelming. I've seen many facing first realization with much less dignity than you."

My vision blurs, the light swirling with each of Scruffy's strides. "She really is crazy," I whisper.

"As a loon bird," mutters Hugo sagaciously. Bryon's staff is a blur of brown wood as it smacks Hugo rather soundly between the legs, but his gaze does not falter, bronze eyes still locked onto mine.

"She would've done it a second time," Bryon says in a quiet, apologetic tone of voice. "I know she would've. But I was afraid she would offer something more than herself to Lucius. I couldn't let her do that. No." Towards the end, he almost sounds like he's convincing himself.

"And after all of that," I curse bitterly, eyes stinging, "he still left her. My father still left us."

"Oh, Penryn." Bryon's eyes swim, and, for the first time, he looks away, keeping secrets still. There is grief pulling his mouth into a thin line. "He didn't want to. He did not want to at all."

"I need a moment," I inform him after a second of silence. "Nothing too long, but somewhere… somewhere where no one can hear me, okay?"

Page ambles up and hops, her cold fingers brushing mine and Bryon's. Undoubtedly sensing my distress. Of course she'd like to console me. Because that's what Paige does. She consoles people, even when I should be consoling her about those awful stitches.

"Let her have a moment alone." Raffe's voice is surprising after such a long period, gruff and adamant. He appears on my opposite side, blue eyes as hard as stone, not releasing an inkling of emotion. "She deserves it."

Hugo slaps Scruffy's haunches firmly, propelling the wolf over the stone. "Go take her somewhere far off. Don't come back until she does."

With a huff of breath, Scruffy starts to trot a little faster, limping with his bandage and veering from the group. Bryon's hand is dragged off mine, and Paige's is taken with it. Paige's round eyes seem to capture the poignancy of the moment in two reflective pools fringed by her long, doelike lashes, whereas Bryon's expression holds mystery and the tickle of a distant sorrow. Hugo waves teasingly, his smirk as uncannily knowledgeable as ever. Raffe's face is blank, but the barest lick of farewell glints in his eyes.

I wave half-heartedly, wiggling my fingers in goodbye. Scruffy plods deep into the belly of the Nephilim Temple, as if he knows the tunnels and bridges better than he'd let on.

On the main path, the Chaza had allowed extraordinary sights and beautiful architectural feats. Illuminated by the dim glow of small holes in the high ceilings and Hugo's torch, I'd seen statues and arches and palaces carved from jewels. The regal beauty of the Nephilim Temple had forced me to respect the once-were inhabitants. But that had only been the main street, the primary route. As Scruffy expertly scales steep stairways and lopes up slick ramps, I'm introduced to another revolutionary style.

As the dots of the gang disappear far below us, plants and stones glowing begin to appear. A broad flower with a golden trumpet sparkles with luminescent pollen, releasing a cloud of glowing dust into the air as Scruffy's paw brushes against it. Though I gawk, the wolf does not falter in his stride. He takes me into a long corridor with one wall of arches peering down far below at the main street where the men used to be, now trekking onward, and the other wall a sheet of diamond waterfalls gurgling like frogs. The waterfalls spill into a pond filled with massive koi fish and wide lily pads with shining blue blossoms. At the end of the corridor is another set of stairways, and this time, the opals set into the wall glow.

Perhaps one of the most incredible factors of the Nephilim Temple is the way it's organized. The main road we'd been travelling on before leads from cavern to cavern, each cave room as large as a town. Wrapping around the walls of the caverns are house after house, dotted with shops and restaurants and all sorts of little hole-in-the-wall places. It makes me wonder just how many Nephilim had lived among us before the angels took root nearby.

Scruffy continues to scale the buildings, occasionally skipping a level by scrabbling up the wall to another stairwell. I'm not sure where he's headed, but it's fairly peaceful, trotting along with the light of the incandescent sources. The gait he travels at is soothing to my whirlwind of thoughts. I collapse into him, resting fully on his neck and shutting my eyes, letting the wolf lead the way. Clutching his fur for any stability, I find myself trusting Scruffy more than I ever had before. After what seems like a blissful eternity of walking, he pauses, and woofs to me. It's almost as if we've reached our destination, as if Scruffy is through wandering.

Peeling my eyes open, I glance around the room he'd entered. Everything is lit by a soft yellow light, filtering through from a crack in the ceiling – perhaps a bed of golden flowers is above us, and the pollen's luminance shines through. Or maybe we're at the top of the cavern, and that's sunlight I see. But this corridor has no windows or any way for me to tell where exactly we are in the terms of height.

"What is this place, Scruffy?" I whisper, pulling myself into an upright position on his saddle. My fingers sink into the rugged leather. "Where did you take me?"

Scruffy releases a huff in response, shaking out his mane. Whining and limping a few steps, he waves his leg around to show that his shoulder's aching.

Oh. So this isn't some mysterious room that Scruffy's been trying to show me. He's just tired of walking.

Somewhat disappointed and somewhat amused, I dismount from him, feet hitting the marble floor with a pins-and-needles sensation. Scruffy sighs deeply, lumbering over to one of the ornate walls and collapsing against it. I laugh quietly as he closes his eyes, causing his tail to thump against the floor.

"Sleep well, puppy dog," I whisper, turning my attention to the rest of the corridor Scruffy had lead me to. "This place should entertain me."

The room is a mural, from start to finish – the long hallway is painted in the classic style, depicting all sorts of monsters and demons and angels on the walls. It's almost like an amalgamation of all the Nephilim fabled heroes, or legendary warriors or something. There is no holy feeling here, but rather a sense that this place was tread often before it was abandoned. Lonely, sad, and longing to be seen again – and happy, happy to host people once more.

At the end of the hall, that insignia – the two wolves and the Clockwork Angel – appears again, a few colossal unlit candles ringing the three figures. Curiously, I roam down, eyes wandering over the paintings until something catches my gaze.

I walk right up to the wall, staring into the angel's eyes. A ribbon carrying a title rests above his head, like in most old fashioned paintings. "So, you're Lion. Lion and She Wolf." I frown. "Is Lion a codename for that Saw-ree-el angel? Because you look a lot like him."

The two figures, one a golden angel and the other a woman with a bronze and brown color pallet, don't respond. They both are about as tall as the length between my fingertips to my elbow, and both are surrounded by a swarm of other angels with a woman counterpart – all the Watchers and Wives, I suppose. I stare closer at Sariel's wife for a moment, memorizing the hostile expression on the woman's face, her hair flailing melodramatically, and the crimson blood dripping off her long pair of narrow blades. "If that's Sariel, you must be his wife, huh? You look pretty tough. I wonder what your real name is, Mrs. She Wolf."

Scruffy sighs heavily, the sound echoing through the long chamber. I glance back at him. "You're right. Talking to myself is pretty pathetic, isn't it? How about from now on, I'm talking to you…"

Scruffy sighs even louder.

"Okay, okay," I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "I suppose it's still pretty pathetic. But I'll go insane if I don't speak in this deathly quiet place. I'm keeping myself entertained, right? Not thinking about mom or hellfire or Lucius or – _hey_, look, it's Bryon."

I cross the hall, going diagonal from She Wolf and Lion to look at Bryon's painting. Obviously, it was done by somebody who admires Bryon. His staff is held by calloused hands, and slightly exaggerated muscles are clearly visible beneath his shirt. Though it maintains his appearance, it puts him in a handsome light – his cloak is caught in the wind, and his eyes are painted in metallic bronze dye.

"Look at this." I tap the paint gently at his name, the old art cracking at my touch. "Dragon King. He wasn't kidding. I thought it might be Dragon, or something like that, just with King attached by some people. Huh." I frown, fingers skating over the painting to the pretty white-haired she-angel beside him. Her cherry red eyes awaken some sort of memory. "'Wish'. Huh. Is that her codename? She's never come up in a conversation before. Those red wings are kind of pretty, I guess." My frown deepens. "I wonder if they had a thing. Bryon doesn't seem like he'd be into angels or anything."

Scruffy snorts incredulously, as if he's really listening to me.

"Okay, okay," I laugh. "I suppose I don't know enough about him. Heck, I know next to nothing about him. Man of mystery, isn't he? He could be into angels, for all I know. Maybe. Is Hugo on here anywhere? Or Ogden? Wait, there's Ogden."

Ambling over to the drawing, I peer at Ogden. His outfit is different than it is now, but otherwise, it's the same Ogden. "Bear. I suppose I could see that. He's so, so strong, and a bit timid. Plus, he did get ticked at Hugo that one time, and his temper was a bit bearlike. Yeah, I suppose he could be Bear. I would've chosen Ox, personally. I have no clue what they'll call Hugo, that little trickster. Oh, look, you and Hugo right next to Ogden. Are those two associated together?"

Studying Hugo, I find that he's got a few of those Eggs rolling around his feet. His outfit is different as well, a scrappy top hat matching a fancy butler's suit with pocket watches and quilted patches at the elbows. The cocky smile on his face is captured with astounding skill. Scruffy is behind him, the wolf's grin somehow seized in dye flawlessly.

"You don't have a title, Scruffy," I whisper, fascinated by the artwork, "but Hugo is 'Monkey'. Is that where the nickname started? Or maybe he took it gratefully?"

Scruffy huffs an exasperated sigh, as if I'd hit it on the nose. I throw my head back with a laugh. "I wonder why you don't have a title. There's a She Wolf, why isn't there a Wolf?"

His movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn to face him just as his head rises, and his nostrils flare. Ears swiveling to my direction, he widens his eyes. A thundering grunt rumbles from his chest. With a sigh, he relaxes back against the wall.

"Did that mean that there is a Wolf?" Curiously, I peer around the room, searching for the little mural. "Where? Are you going to tell me, or just leave me to search?"

Scruffy peels one eye open, his scathing exasperation glinting in the coppery layers.

"Right." I nod, blushing. "You can't tell me. You can't speak. But you knew that. Can you help me or anything? Or are you just dysfunctional right now?"

Grunting and growling, Scruffy hefts himself to his feet, rumbling at me. His paws thud over the earth. He shakes out his cinnamon fur, ruffling his mane. Snarling once at the bothersome cast trapping his shoulder, he lumbers to my side, breath tickling the side of my neck. I wait for some hint of where to search as he stills, but the wolf only stares at me expectantly.

"What?" I blink at him. "Am I missing something obvious?"

Scruffy jerks his head towards the place he'd been relaxing all over with utter defeat on his face.

"Oh." I stride over to the wall with a crimson blush heating my face. "I totally knew that."

On first glance, there is no Wolf – I see Bull and Parrot and Coyote and Raven and, strangely enough, Unicorn, but I do not see Wolf. "Where is this wolf?" I murmur, gently stroking the wall. My gaze tilts slightly to the right, and I see him.

My heart stops.

_WOLF_

And beneath that beige ribbon with the text clearly printed upon it, with intense blue eyes and black tousled hair, is my father.

"No." I collapse to my knees, touching the old paint and rubbing the imprints of the brushstrokes. "No way. That's…" I turn to Scruffy as he pads up beside me, reaching one hand up caress his cheek. "That's my father."

"So it is." For a bizarre second, I believe that Scruffy has responded to me with a borrowed voice – but then logic crashes back into me, and I turn to the mouth of the mural room to catch sight of the two bronze eyes.

Bryon tips his head. "Apologies for barging in. I had a feeling Scruffy might've taken you here, this painting room. There's one in every Chaza. It's a very friendly place, isn't it?"

"Why did you follow me?" I bristle timorously, clasping both hands on Scruffy's cheek and pressing my body against his soft neck. "I thought I said I needed some time alone."

"And I am sorry," Bryon apologizes with a tip of his head. Undauntedly, he steps beside me. "We simply didn't want to get too far ahead of you and Scruffy, considering his cast." He raps his knuckles on the wolf's bandage as Scruffy bathes the left side of his face in slobber. "At first, he researched more into Gabriel, but then Hugo got tired of waiting, so he sent me after you. We can stay as long as you like, they're not going anywhere."

"Do you have to –" I groan with annoyance, knowing Hugo well enough to be sure that Bryon will stick around. "Oh, alright. Can you at least explain to me why my father is here?" I wonder, jabbing a finger at the painting. "And why he… is painted with those grey things on his back?"

"Wings?" Calmly, Bryon taps his staff on the painting twice, nodding. "I suppose he never would've mentioned that. I got so pissed when he cut them off, even if it was for true love or whatnot. I suppose it was rather sweet, slicing them off for your mother and you, but he was so lucky to get those wings. And he just sawed them off, without a second thought. I was heartbroken."

"That's actually my father, then." Nausea rocks my stomach. "My father with wings. You're saying that my father had wings."

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Bryon smiles and nods at me soothingly. "He never did go swimming with the family, did he? Or take off his shirt? You never saw the scars, and he was careful of that. Strange man, your father. He had everything – riches, respect, and wings – but he gave it up for a normal life. To be normal is quite boring, in my opinion, but we never wholly saw eye to eye." He blinks with his toothsome eyelashes, glancing me up and down. "This is quite a day, isn't it? Let me know if you need to vomit."

"Not making any promises that I won't." Clutching my stomach, I hunch slightly, staring at his picture, each passing second bringing the realization that I never did see my father without a shirt, perhaps to hide hideous scars from Paige and I. "Is my dad an angel? One of… _them_? Am I…?"

With a melodious chuckle, Bryon rocks his head from side to side. "You really think your quirky little stick of a father was an angel?"

"Then what is he?" I turn my head to Bryon, the slightest tears blurring my vision. "No – no human has bird wings, living flesh and feathers like those. And… my God. What am I?"

"Mostly human." Gently, Bryon places one hand on either of my shoulders, looking deep into my eyes. His own bronze pupils are fringed by those long, thick eyelashes that seem to wave forlornly at me with each blink of his eye. "Penryn, you are a glorious human monkey, and that will never change."

"Your eyelashes," I whisper distractedly.

Bryon's eyebrows raise, puzzlement dominating his sympathetic expression. "What about them? Did one fall out?"

"Those…" My voice tremors. I step away from him with trembling strides, my legs quivering violently. "Those are Paige's eyelashes. You have my little sister's eyelashes. Why do you have Paige's eyelashes?"

Bryon stills smiles, but there's a heartbroken note to it, as if my frightened retreat from his touch had injured him more deeply than I'm aware of. "It's time you learn the truth, isn't it? Time to know the truth of our family."

"Our?" I choke out on a strangled breath, back arching in shock.

"Yes." Bryon closes his eyes, long and lush lashes against his cheek. "It's time to learn the truth about everything. About angels, about Fallen, about Seraphim, about the humans, but mostly, about" – his eyes open, allowing the metallic bronze to chase the dark brown in his iris – "the Nephilim."

* * *

**First thing's first: Happy Birthday, Anonymous! I plan on releasing this chapter on the 17th – if I miss it, I'm sorry!**

**Next thing: This story's officially hit 100 reviews. Guys, that's amazing. Truly amazing. I'm so happy about that, it made me beam like a little, uh, happy writer. **

**Final thing: Haha no just kidding I'm not going to comment on the chapter I'm just going to sit here and let you debate about it. I will say that you might not get the next chapter for a while, because my sacred Wi-Fi spot has been compromised. **

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**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

We hadn't left the room, still crouching in the center. The golden light from above remains steadfast and sure, casting light upon the floor of which I huddle against. The air is surprisingly warm, perhaps heated by Bryon's presence.

The warmth harbored in Bryon's cloak remedies the shocked shivers racking my body slightly. Each time he glances my direction, I catch the furtive sheen of concern in his bronze eyes. Though he tries to remain intently focused on mixing the powder with his spit to create that weird brown paste, Bryon still seems drawn back to me, as if his concern grows with each glance my way.

"This is a long story," he cautions in advance, bending over his little pile of powder and spit and the beginnings of the nasty paste, "and one that must be told correctly. Be warned, you won't be able to tell Raphael until I give the okay."

I stare at his back as he reaches across the way to rub Scruffy's nose. "Like Ogden wasn't able to say much about my father. He said… something about… wait for family."

"I have no power over Ogden." Bryon meets my gaze, his calm a balm to my fluttering heartbeat. "That old man is a king in his own regard, and I will not be the one to strip him from that."

"You're doing it." I clench my teeth. "Being mysterious. Can't you just start explaining already? What is that brown stuff?"

"This 'brown stuff' is just paint." Bryon smiles, rubbing the last of the powder into paste and scooping it all together. "I'm a very visual storyteller, so I like to jot some things down as I tell, to help people understand my meanings."

"That's the last of it, right there. Can you start now? I'm so sick of being unsure."

"I suppose so." Bryon kneads the paste, not meeting my eyes. "Well. With every story, there is a beginning. I'm going to start out and tell you the nature of things. There is a start and finish to everything, a dawn and a dusk, a birth and a death. Everything, that is, except the world itself. You humans may speak of the universe and its birth and how something started so long ago, but that's nonsense. I've been around long enough to know that, even if an apocalypse wipes out the world as we know it or all the natural resources are tapped or everyone dies of some freak lab accident – anything to finish an era, or the dusk to a bright day – at the dawn of the next day, everything will be back to normal, and the species of the world will start anew. It is upon that knowledge that I know that the Lord in some way exists – for nothing that spectacular can happen on its own. Do you understand?"

Slowly, I nod. Knitting my fingers together, I say, "Sort of like your analogy with days and such. If one day ends, the next is gonna follow. It's not going to just stop. Yeah, I can understand that."

"Clever girl." Bryon smiles approvingly at me, dipping two fingers into his paste. "And, each time the world regenerated, the same species would return." He pauses, fingers hovering over the sable marble. "Of course, there are thousands upon thousands of different breeds and minor creatures that can be treated like livestock, but I will mention only a few special ones: the returning species, or world powers."

I watch as he slowly draws a figure with an arched back and two demonic wings onto the marble, the style simple but skilled in the same respect. "Contrary to the common belief, Lucifer's fall was not the beginning of the evil in men and the invention of darkness. Even the light of glory and goodness casts a shadow, and so does every other light for that matter. Lucifer was the first to fall in this age, however, and, since he has spent the longest time studying the ways of the dark, he is naturally their leader. Nothing supernatural about it. All the other Fallen are not necessarily evil, either – of course, the rejection turns some bitter and some _are_ evil, but not all. You met Baelan, for a short period of time." Bryon sketches a slightly smaller bat-winged man beside Lucifer. "He was thrown into hell because he fell in love. That should not be a sin, and yet, it is, and he is labeled as an enemy."

"He didn't seem particularly threatening," I admit. "Sort of protective of Hugo, and assertive, but not very threatening."

"See?" Bryon smiles at me, his fingers hovering above the floor. "There is good and evil in everything, rarely just one. Except for demons – those are born from darkness, and I hate to have to trust them in any occasion. Most of the time, the Fallen keep them in line. If I was a miserable bat-winged creature, I wouldn't want annoying monsters running around my feet, either."

With his thumb, he paints a bizarre looking creature mulling at the legs of the Fallen angel.

"Then there are the Wolves." With his non-filthy hand and a furrowing brow, Bryon pats Scruffy's flank, reaching quite a ways to stroke the wolf from where he reclines against the mural wall again. "I'm not sure how I should draw these – they're a wild card among the races, each taking a resemblance to a particular species. There are three main categories – Fallen wolves, Monkey wolves, and Angel wolves. The Fallen wolves have a slim, muscular build, usually with darker coats, and always with bat wings. Uncannily like a Fallen angel, right? Monkey wolves – sorry, _I_ didn't come up with the name – resemble Scruffy a bit more, minus the long legs. They're, well, scruffy, skinny, and, between me and you, usually smarter the others. Angel wolves are huge, massive creatures, with plush pelts and burly muscles. You've only seen Jane once, but she's just a female, and she's much bigger than Scruffy. Big things, with huge feathered wingspans. Each wolf has a unique feature; Scruffy has his legs, Jane has her telepathy and intelligence, and Rumbbaa – you haven't met him– has his four ears."

The canine figures are all slightly above Lucifer and such. The bat-winged wolf is slinking, the plain wolf seems to be prancing, and the huge wolf is caught in a majestic pose.

"Now come humans." Bryon's eyes twinkle. "I doubt I'll have to go very much into depth here. You know your little people, and your fascination in your everyday lives. I love humanity much more than any other species, because of your unique diversity. You never, ever will run into the same personality twice, and that's simply magic in a world of cookie-cutters. Back in the old days, before these goddamned angels and their goddamned world domination schemes, humans were respected for their brains and crafting skills. No one else had that much originality. You were just as revered as any other species, though somewhat more amusing than the rest. That was before even my time, so I hear only second-hand accounts."

"Before the angels…?" I cock my head, leaning forward, staring at the painting. "Does that mean that they weren't always top of the food chain?"

Bryon laughs. "Lord, no. Those bastards didn't always rule everything, imagine the chaos! But all in good time; I'll get there eventually. On the subject of angels, we'll go there next.

"You know what many assume of angels. Proud, haughty pigs gifted with wings, brawn, and sentient swords. And most of that is correct – they are not the brightest creatures when it comes to anything aside from the art of war. That is mostly Gabriel's fault; apparently before, they, too, had geniuses, before they were shunned and banned from society. The angels consist of a complicated system, even though, to outsiders, it is only archangels, angels, and the Messenger. They actually consist of many levels and sublevels of authority that are invisible to anyone but angels. Like a wolf pack. Raphael is on the higher end of archangel hierarchy, whereas Josiah – you met him, didn't you? – is dangerously low. They do not reproduce with the she-angels, but they do have a way of adapting to their environments. I'm not sure, I've never asked one about it. Their swords are irreplaceable. Of course, anyone can get their hands on the special metal with enough grunt work – it's difficult but not impossible. It's one thing we steered humankind away from. But the sentient ability? That's lost to us, and of course the angels don't know."

I lean forward to gingerly touch the wings of the largest angel, mind racing. "The Messenger – is he the real deal, or just a phony?"

Bryon settles back on his haunches. "I do not believe that Gabriel has ever felt a touch of holiness. No, with all that I have seen and felt in my many years, I cannot conclude that the Messenger has any connection to God – it is a mere dictatorship, and one of the cleverest kind. What happened with Lucifer is that he started to challenge Gabriel's connection with God. He stood alone, even though he was one of the most popular archangels of the time – the Morning Star, they called him – and his aloofness proved his downfall. Gabriel accused him of challenging God's power, of undermining God's divine highness. And Lucifer fell, forced to become a wretched creature, all alone in the darkness, because he dared to think and to try at being free from Gabriel."

"This Gabriel guy sounds like a real jerk."

"Well, yes and no. He was smart, very smart. You've seen the destruction the angels have wrecked while not beneath his rule. They were even more dangerous before he took power, because there were no laws or codes restricting how they acted. The rules are a way to bind the brutes, to keep them from harming others. I'd like to believe that Gabriel knew that as he made his claims, knew that, without a head on its shoulders, the beast would only strike blindly and clumsily. If Lucifer had challenged that order and dethroned Gabriel, the angelkind would be thrown into a chaos, a chaos that would affect the rest of the world. If it was a choice between dooming one person and yet saving countless other lives, what would you choose?"

I remain quiet, unwilling to answer the question, unwilling to agree with the cruel Messenger.

"Exactly." Bryon smiles in understanding. "You see, like I'd said before, there's good and evil in everything. But we're getting much off topic, aren't we? There are still two races left for us to discuss."

"Really?" I furrow my brow, stroking the clumpy paint on the wolves. "Isn't that it?"

Bryon chuckles, rolling back into a crouch. "Oh, no, there's still two world powers left. First off, let's get the Seraphim, before too many questions arise. The male Seraphim much resemble angels, slender angels with six pairs of wings: two pairs stacked upon each other at the shoulder blades, and a pair emerging from the small of the back. They are beautiful, and have a sort of soft luminance about them emitted from their feathers. Some of the more powerful ones are so light they can float. The females are actually long, slender snakes with six pairs of tiny wings along the spine. They often coil around their mates' necks. I don't know anything about that mating topic, so don't ask. I do know that, unlike angels, they reproduce, which is, quite frankly, bizarre to me. Even with their odd appearances, the Seraphim were once the top of the food chain."

Bryon draws a little sword in the hand of his angel before returning to the Seraphim sketches. "Once upon a time, these were the leading force in the celestial creatures. They're intelligent, smarter than you'd believe, and fast as the light they bathe in. They worshipped God and believed that he wanted good in all places. As healers, they were peaceful beings, wandering and helping those they came across with arrogant distaste. Though they never were satisfied with their duties, they were wise leaders, ones that kept the angels straight until Gabriel rallied them. Gabriel and his archangels hunted down the Seraphim and threw them from heaven – not into Hell, thank god, the angels would've been killed right then and there from the pure radiance of fury coming from the Seraphim. Now they just sort of wander the Earth, killing archangels on sight. I hope you're realizing how dangerous it is to be travelling with that archangel, by the way."

Smirking, I chuckle, "Everyone hates Raffe, don't they?"

"I didn't want to bring it up – and I've tried being very civil around him – but I do." Bryon grins sheepishly. "Two wrongs don't equal a right in my book. It's difficult to get on my bad side – and damn, I try so hard not to have one – but somehow, that snarky archangel did it."

"Raffe doesn't know how to play the 'act friendly to threatening strangers' card," I sigh, shrugging. "It's made things… difficult, in some situations, but he's tolerable. He's handy in a fight."

Bryon tosses up his head with a quick roar of a laugh. "I'd say that Raphael's a bit more than handy in a fight. I've been up against him enough times to know that he's very, very good."

"Acting mysterious," I remind him. "Besides, we still have one category left."

"Ah, yes." Bryon's smile turns sly, a dangerous gleam accompanying the warmth in his eyes. "My favorite. The Nephilim."

I study his face as he refreshes his paint, smearing his fingers into the paste. "You're a Nephilim, aren't you? _Dragon_. Is that what you look like, really? Your demon form?"

"'Demon form' is some rather harsh terminology," sighs Bryon, straightening and meeting my eyes. "But, though I try to evade the truth, I suppose it is true to an extent." He looks to the ground and remains quiet for a tense moment, a moment I don't dare interrupt. "Please, Penryn, allow me to explain what a Nephilim truly is before you make any harsh judgment of me."

"I'll try," I whisper, but already, my hands tremble slightly. I remember what Raffe had said, about the Nephilim devouring people – but abruptly, I pause, remembering what Hugo had said when I'd first met Bryon, about how he'd wean Paige off of human flesh.

"Penryn, might I ask you what the difference between a wolf and a dog is?" Bryon questions, his fingers hovering over the marble.

"Uh." I frown, thinking. "One will bite your hand off, and the other's man's best friend." Scruffy mewls in protest, silenced by Bryon's caressing hand.

"One is domesticated, treated with loving care, with a family and a home and a happy life." Bryon smiles. "The other is alone. It's been treated like a mangy animal for its entire existence, so it knows no other way. It is a monster, one that will quickly harm animals if it believes that they can be prey. However, you and I both know a benign wolf." He strokes Scruffy's mane, his roaming up to scratch behind the wolf's ears. "And any unloved dog out on the streets can go feral. This is the same with Nephilim. You have both options, and neither one is adamant on its path.

"What Raphael and the other archangels saw as during the period of the Fall of the Watchers was a period I call the Terrible Twos." He smiles sadly at me, bronze eyes flashing. "My father claims that I never hurt a soul except for occasionally nipping my mother, but I'm not sure how viable he is. During this stage in a Nephilim's life, we're like any other little child – sticking whatever we can in our mouths, throwing temper tantrums, having mood swings. True, a few of our inherited abilities marked our activities as slightly more perilous, but our parents were always there to keep us on the right path, as any parents are. I suppose…" He trails off, meeting my gaze. "After Raphael found out about the Watchers' fraternizing, the first angel he went to was my father. He threatened my dad disparagingly, and, apparently, I did not like that at all. First, I hissed at him, revealing my existence to Wrath of God. Then, he cursed at my father for spawning a little demon and I grew angrier. I tore a chunk out of his arm, if I remember correctly."

I can't help laughing a short, breathy chuckle. The thought of a little tiny Bryon ripping into Raffe's arm is morbidly amusing.

"Raphael flew off, but of course, his interaction with me had scarred his image of us. If I could, I would take back what happened that day. What soon followed was the imprisonment of my father and the other Watchers." Suddenly, he clears his throat. "I suppose I should've lead with this, but I'll make time for it now, before my tale really hits the fan. We, the sons and daughters of the Watchers, were not the first Nephilim to tread the Earth. Nor were some of us the first to evade the angel's talons. No, Ogden had done it, centuries before us."

"Ogden?" I whisper in surprise.

"Oh, yes. You see, he was the offspring of a pretty maiden and a drunken angel. The angel kept it quiet, and so did the mother. He was hidden in a blacksmith's forge until he reached an age he could control himself in. Ogden was alone for the longest time, but, when the Watchers started siring, he hung around and formed bonds with all of us. When our fathers disappeared, he filled their roles as best he could, using his strength to wallop us into line if that course of action was necessary. When our mothers went into hiding – if they were not killed by the hellions – he held us after we had nightmares, and wiped our tears after we fell down. Ogden became the Mama Bear, and earned the title the First Nephilim. Even though I technically have a better seat in politics to other species, he is as respected as I am among the Nephilim."

"You're king, aren't you? Nephilim King as well as Dragon King?"

"They call me their king, yes, but it'll be explained in good time." Bryon winks and smiles, holding a dyed finger to his lips, leaving a smudge on their full shape. "Ogden hid us, lead us to place after place. Raphael tracked down other groups of Nephilim – there were two hundred Watchers; although only twenty of them were considered leaders, all of them had children. It was a slaughterhouse, because Ogden could not protect the ones that fled from their houses after their mothers left, could not hide them from Raphael's blade if they chose to dine on the humans that so easily strutted up to little bawling children in the street. Not one survived, though I searched long and hard for brothers and sisters. When all the easy leads had vanished, all the little children running free on the streets had disappeared, Raphael went after the big catch.

"There were over twenty of us, in all. Twenty six, assuming I'm remember right. In the time Raphael had been hunting down our brethren, many of our number had begun to grow to full size. I didn't – I had the curse of long life, a life that's extended my days until now. So, when Raphael finally tracked us down, I had the appearance of a three year old boy. I was a runt, a skinny thing, clutching to my father's cloak the way another child may grip a teddy bear." He breathes deeply, closing his eyes, to hide pain. "I remember that night so clearly. I remember the flames, Penryn, licking the chapel like hell itself reaching for the sky, and Raphael hovering over the steeple with sweeping flaps of his snowy wings. The ash fell like tears from the bloody red sky. Ogden had gone out to fight him, to try and ward the archangel off. It didn't work. Raphael sliced off his tongue and left him to die in the smoldering remains of a burning hut, the injuries causing Ogden his misshapen build now. After that, he took off, after me."

Bryon chuckles dryly, still not opening his eyes. "I told that bastard to remember me. I thought that I was going to die valiantly, that the fight I would put up would make a mark on Raphael. To him, I was just a boy. I lead the charge. We were headed for a forest that had these lovely blossoms, a forest I grew up near, a forest where my father taught me everything he knows, and I was confident we could make the distance. Once submerged in the shadows of the undergrowth, Raphael could not be able to find us, surely. We did not even make it." His voice grows slightly more labored. "I had a little sister. She was right at my heels, we were going to make it. When Raphael came out of the blue and stabbed her, I turned around and I snarled at him. I would've leapt, ripped out his throat, but, for the first time, I saw the bodies of all my friends and family, lying lifelessly over the mountain."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, something deep within me longing to erase his palpable agony. "It must've been rough."

"I do occasionally have nightmares." Bryon clears his throat and refocuses. "But that's the past, and it was a long time ago. Ogden and I, we stumbled out of that Hell. Raphael, callous son of a bitch, he'd hit me upside the head – I'm not sure why he thought I was dead, but apparently he did. I had a scar for a long time, but it's gone now. Ogden was burned badly, couldn't even walk. I didn't wake up in his arms. The Wives had returned, the surviving fifty. Those that knew the dead or were the mothers of the dead were all crying. According to Daisy, my mother was stumbling around, bugling my name desperately, searching for my body. She wanted to believe that I had lived, but she just couldn't. I had landed in a ditch after Raphael had hit me, and I was hidden, even as she dropped to her knees and pulled the body of my sister onto her lap and sobbed. It wasn't until I started muttering in my sleep that she realized I was living.

"I honestly thought she was going to kill me, she was holding me so tight. She was happy, of course, but she was also injured. Her flee from the hellions had impacted her, less so than the imprisonment of her husband or the death of her daughter, but she was a changed woman. She, much like I, became furious at the world. The Watchers had left their swords with their wives, since every wife can hold their husband's sword. She took up that sword and she slaughtered the angels that remained on Earth, that's what she did. Thea was always a fiery, creative creature, but she soon proved to be even more lethal than a mother wolf with threatened pups. That earned her the famous codename She Wolf."

"Your mother is She Wolf?" I burst. "That means that your father was Sariel!"

Bryon smiles, his bronze eyes opening. "Clever, clever girl. Yes, my father is Sariel, the Lion, former keeper of the cherubs. With all hopes, we should meet him somewhere along the way. He'll be so happy to see you. My father and I – I realize now we're much in common. Protective of those we love, open to those we don't know, and a dangerous enemy. I left my mother not long after she started hunting the angels, simply because, although I looked young, I had a rebellious thirst for freedom – I wanted to see the world myself, and learn all of its secrets. I do believe I broke her heart, but she let me leave, let me go my own way. It only made me harsh.

"A child is not meant to be on its own, to learn how to navigate the world itself. A child should be given familial guidance, should be shown how to be kind and gentle. I never was taught that by my parents – Ogden fell into depression, so I never stayed much around him, either. As I grew and I learned more about how bitter and evil and strange this world is that I lived in, I became angrier and angrier with it. My belligerence was frighteningly blissful, and it grew with each fistfight I won, each tussle I reigned victorious over. I continued in this fashion for many a year, and, with this euphoric rage, I found relief in pummeling Raphael.

"I had all my motives, of course – by this time, there was illegal offspring from drunken angels and such who'd heard the rumors of human women, as there always has been – so, when Raffe descended to hunt, if he spent all his time battling _me_, there was no chance he would kill any of my brethren. If I fought Raphael and killed him, no one would ever be hurt by his wrath again. If I earned expertise in the world of fighting, someday, my own children would be safe from any harm that fell upon them. And so, every time I saw that archangel, I would shift into my other form, and meet him on the battlefield."

"You still haven't explained the other forms thing," I remind him softly.

"Oh." Bryon blinks. "I haven't, that's right. I'm getting caught up storytelling, aren't I?"

"Don't stop, it's interesting. I'm piecing together the world along with your descriptions."

"Alright. I won't. But first, other forms." Bryon smiles and shuts his eyes, cutting off the bronze gleam. "Nephilim have two technical 'forms' – we have the human appearance, the one that our fathers or mothers gave to us, and we have what happens when the blood mixes. We have fangs and tails and – well, everyone is different. We can shift between the two with ease. Me? I am a dragonish creature, a dragon without wings. But, Penryn, this person you see here, this form?" Bryon turns to me, touching one dirty hand to his face. "It isn't just a skin, just a tarp to cover up a beast inside. This is _me_. I am just as much this man as I am that beast. That's something you've got to remember when dealing with any Nephilim – that 'demon form' we have? That's us, too. We're the same, there is no difference. True, usually, when I go 'dragon', it isn't to skip through a field of daisies, but it's the same soul. I am _Bryon_. Bryon Young. If you look into my eyes and see a monster, you are not my friend. I am Bryon, and that will not change, no matter the form."

Then, smiling sadly, he blinks for a long time. When his eyes open once more, the pupils are slits, like he'd said – the bronze gleam there is somehow brighter, and the sadness just as potent. He smiles, the reptilian eyes sending shivers through me again. With another long blink, they vanish, returning to round dots in the center of his eyes.

"That's creepy," I whisper. "That's… seriously creepy. But I think I can live with it."

"Are you certain?" Bryon's gaze is yearning for understanding, watching intently for my approval, but there is so much fear, so much expectation of rejection there that my heart tugs. "If you are not, I'd rather know."

I square my shoulders. "My mother does dealings with demons, my father had wings, my sister… is an angel ragdoll, and my primary companion is an archangel with bat wings. Bring it on."

Very slowly, Bryon starts to smile at me, warmth touching his expression. Clearing his throat, he tries to realign the conversation, to focus himself, to banish his smile. "So, yeah, I'm a dragonlike monster. Every time I would see Raphael, I would engage him as a monster, not allowing him to see this face. Every time, I would limp away seconds before I was overwhelmed, disappearing without a trace. Every time during my convalescence, I would grow bitterer, more hateful.

"Until I met my father again. I looked about sixteen at the time, and it was millennia since I had parted with him. If it hadn't been for my mother's descriptions of him – how I reminded her of him, how we had the same reflective eyes – I would've not had a clue upon his appearance. I had paired multiple personalities to that face she constructed over the years: kind and gentle, harsh and cruel, warm and soft. None had seemed to fit. I remember it so well, the time I first looked at him."

"But wasn't he imprisoned?" I wonder, eyebrows furrowing. "Thrown into hell or whatnot?"

Bryon nods once. "He was. But it was in a time when Gabriel kept stacking up the rules, kept adding more, throwing angels into the Pit for reasons beyond me. And, with each new force that descended, the defenses grew weaker." He lifts his open hand, forming a blade with his fingers, and sending a fragile quiver through it. "This is walls, the walls separating the creatures in the Pit from the outside world. See it?" His hand jerks suddenly, a major change when compared to all the little shivering. "Did you see that?"

"Yes."

"Good. So did the Watchers. They learned that the walls fluctuating, and, occasionally, broke form for _brief_ moments. They, the ones that had been there the longest, learned how to escape one at a time. Of course, they were intelligent enough to return. Uriel still kept a close eye on Hell, and any permanent absence would be noted and their gap would be sealed. But they checked to see if their wives had survived – and many of the fifty had, drinking my blood to extend their lifetimes. Those Watchers which ascended and searched for the love of their lives, wandering to discover the one of which they had prayed for and dreamed of in that dark hole, only to discover a headstone often went mad, committing suicide or becoming bloodthirsty, eventually to be taken out by the angel hunters. Those Watchers which found their wives – would you believe it – sired more Nephilim. _My_ father, seeing this and frowning upon it, searched for me.

"You see, Penryn, he remembered me as the genteel little boy that wouldn't harm a fly, despite what my mother warned him. He thought that I could teach the new Nephilim as soon as they were born, teach them how to live without human flesh. A human diet never had satisfied me, but I never, ever wanted to be the wise teacher I am now. I wanted to be a warrior, expert of melee. My anger led me there. And so I was not prepared for him."

Bryon blinks rapidly a few times, dispelling a watery glint in his eyes. "I remember, it was a hot day, sticky as ever. I remember I was darting through the crowds, shadowed by this cloak, when I heard his voice." He laughs breathily once, and then allows his eyes to well. "Penryn, that was one of the happiest days in my existence. I remember he said, 'You there! Your cloak!' I turned around, and I was looking him in the eye – he was wearing a cloak in the dead of summer like me. I didn't recognize him, so I cocked my head and gave him an angry glare. He stepped closer to me, expression softening into disbelief, and he said – he said, 'That's my cloak. I gave my boy that cloak. Why do you have my boy's cloak?'" Bryon's breaths tremble. "And I said, 'What kind of cruel joke are you playing? My father gave me this cloak.' And… it hit us both, in the same heartbeat, nearly as hard as Raphael hit the roof of a nearby building.

"If I'm correct, he was actually fighting some sort of demon. It flew off and left him to recover. But I didn't waste a chance – Raphael was wounded, and I was fresh as a daisy. With my father watching in horror, I leapt onto the roof Raphael had crashed on. He was barely conscious, utterly at my mercy. Oh, God, I remember the triumph, crushing his throat. I remember his weak gurgle, eyelids sliding open to reveal those dimming blue eyes. His life was mine. I was not going to give that up, and I wouldn't have, if my father hadn't been there."

"What did he do?" I whisper, the picture of Bryon's angry face and his hand around Raffe's throat vivid in my mind.

"He cried, 'You are not my son!' I paused. I was confused. His voice brought so many memories back, memories I had long forgotten. My father teaching me to be kind. Teaching me to forgive people, even if they hit me. Teaching me how to make flowers float. I turned to him, eyes wide, and my grip on Raphael relaxed slightly. I said, 'He's hurt me.' He said, 'I know.' Then, in confusion, I said, 'He's hurt you.' My father smiled and said, 'I know that, too. But my son would have forgiven him. My son would've taken the blows, and not searched for the fight. Where is he? Where is my son?'" Bryon sighs slowly, looking deep into the past. "I dropped Raphael, leaving him gasping for breath, and took a few steps towards my father – there was now no doubt on my behalf. I was bewildered, confused by his rejection – I was still a child inside, a child yearning for his daddy. I hadn't taken to many steps before I crashed to my knees and started crying, just like I had when I was a boy. My father wrapped his arms around me then, and carried me away. Oh, Lord, I was a mess."

"It sounds sweet." I glow with envy, wishing my father had done something so beautiful for me. "Did he forgive you?"

"Of course he did." Bryon turns his face to me, wisdom playing at his lips. "That's what family does. He took me under his wing, and taught me to live again – he taught me that surviving isn't living. He taught me how to fight without mortally injuring someone, how to lead, how to be a _man_, not a monster. Between you and I, I think my mother taught him how to be a man, and he preferred it to being an angel. But I owe my father everything. He is the reason I turned my nose up to killing Raphael thousands of times – he'd attacked me upon realizing that I was Nephilim and I'd knock him out. My father is the reason I became respectable King of all the Nephilim in the world today, the reason that I began to live again, the reason I had your father to teach everything I knew about the world."

"My father." The word is a whisper.

"Yes." Bryon smiles. "I have no idea how many times I will say this, but wait, and I'll tell. Around when I was twenty, gauging by appearance, the angels returned. The humans were in the midst of a big boom of wealth and engineering – much like the nineteen-twenties here in America, might I add, but all over the world. They cut that off, cut all those lives short. My Nephilim were also flourishing, learning how to hide and how to love. There were Nephilim falling in love with Nephilim and starting Nephilim families. There were Nephilim falling in love with humans and creating spliced families. And, soon, Nephilim and angels as well. I was respected as a leader among them, a wise man despite my young appearance – I'd graduated from my father's teachings, looking beyond his embrace to find a peaceful path of my own. The angels interrupted that.

"I instantly began a sort of hidden warfare against them – you know what. Angels don't remember humans, and, to an angel's eyes, I look human. It would've gone rather smoothly, dismissing them, if it hadn't been for two she-angels and their quest for suffrage. Ariel, the Lioness, and Audiat, the Wish." He glances up at the wall, looking at the angel hovering beside him in the painting with a grin. "Audiat got stuck in one of the human traps. I, being the gentleman I am, rescued her from the gunshots and marched her home in my arms over a course of three days. Once I was at the aerie, we waved goodbye for a time. But her dreams of suffrage stuck with me, and soon, the Nephilim were allied to the she-angels."

"Wait," I interrupt. "So the she-angels are different from just plain angels? I saw plenty of them at the aeries I've been to."

Bryon rolls his eyes. "Spies, Penryn. And females want to be considered an entirely different species, considering they can't reproduce at all, not even with male angels. Anyway, during the first few stages of their domination, Hugo had joined me, and we wandered the world together. Ogden, too, became attached to the boy's funky attitude. We eventually sent the angels back to their place up in the sky – before you ask, even I don't know about it – and life returned to what it is now. At the end of that period, Hugo – who was twelve at the time – drank my blood, and he, too, became nearly immortal. It blended well with him, leading to an even slower aging than mine.

"But then, I was alone again. I did what I always did – I wandered, I mourned those I had lost, and I helped the Nephilim children learn right from wrong. With each new experience and each new life I rescued and guarded, my legend grew stronger, until I was practically living, breathing folklore. People would whisper my name as I would pass through a supermarket, elders would fantasize of my swollen heart and warm benevolence around the fireside, children would offer me flower necklaces. The Nephilim officially formed an organized government, with me at the head as King. They could've chosen democracy if they'd liked, and yet, they chose the Dragon with the past of blood to lead them through times of crisis and woe. Of course, if they wanted me to leave, I would've, but all the same, I grew attached to the role. That life was lonely in the same way it was beautiful – I hopped from friendly center to friendly center all by myself, never staying long enough to grow attached. I danced, I laughed, I sang, and I left. It was fun, to find the hidden beautiful places of the world and to coax humanity back to its former glory. But I suppose that none of that really matters enough to elaborate upon, not when compared to your father."

I look him up and down, probing for a flaw in his composure. "You said that you're my family. You said that your father gave you my dad. Are you…?"

"If you're going to say grandpap, no. If you're going to say cousin, no. If you're going to say uncle, I'm going to say _ding-ding-ding_."

My throat chokes up. I study his face, trying to memorize every nook and cranny of it. The harder I look at that skin of his, bathed in golden light, the more I see similarity. The line of his jaw is nearly identical to my father's, and his lips closely resemble mine. _Nephilim_. The word is a blade, slicing apart all my other thoughts.

"He never mentioned you," I whisper.

"He never mentioned me. Never let you know that you had an uncle." Bryon breathes in painfully, looking off into the distance. "Bet he probably said your grandparents died, too. It broke their hearts, knowing that they'd never meet their grandkids. I made a promise to my brother that I'd never reveal your location to them, but it became harder and harder to keep it. I loved that silly, quirky, little idiot, but he had a falling out with our father. He thought that I was the favored son, thought that he was always second best. Which he wasn't, not in a million years. But we'll tell ourselves funny lies, don't we? He lived the life of a mechanic with the mindset of an angel – common humans are dumb, and not to be meddled with. As he grew older, it only seemed to prove truer. For a time, I think he added 'Older brothers are dumb' to the list, but he never said.

"How he first met your mother always has interested me, surprised me. She was a government agent – I always forget which branch – and she was investigating a few weird deaths in the area. He was hunting down the demon that killed them. It was an entire pack of hellhounds, and one of them had strayed from the group. In its confusion, it had started to kill people. They crashed into each other quite literally, and fought the demon together in some cacophonous union. She wanted to know more, he didn't want to tell her, and she made him show her his world. The first time I met her, I was training with some tempered swords, shirtless. I'd never seen my brother so jealous. It was amusing at the time. I thought he just wanted to be ripped, thought nothing of the human woman. He hated humans, it didn't even seem like an option for him."

"He always did seem a bit intolerant of clerks and telephone operators," I acknowledge with a nod.

Sidetracked, Bryon snorts with laughter. "You're telling me. That guy could argue with a human for hours without pause. But he didn't with your mother. It at first amused, then puzzled me. Over a series of weeks, they tracked down the entire hellhound pack side by side, falling more and more in love with each demon they slaughtered, until there was only one left. It was the omega, the little guy, they didn't even realize it existed. They were in a cave when it sought revenge. You know, thinking back, they never did say what they were doing all alone in a – I'm going stop that thought right there. Anyway, they were in the cave, all alone. The hellhound creeped out and took a chunk out of your father. He apparently died in her arms, and the hellhound escaped into the night.

"You know as much as I do about what happened with Lucius. I really have no clue about your mother. I just know that she was dealing with demons, which is never to be done.

"Your father returned to us. He decided that, instead of being irritated with the human world, he would be irritated with the world he'd known all his life. As they fell more and more in love, he strayed further and further. It wasn't until he cut off those glorious grey wings of his that I realized he was truly drifting from me. It made me sad, to see him go, but I was happy he'd found a place by that madwoman's side. When he completely gave up our way of life –" Bryon's breath catches. "He did it _completely_. He allowed people like us to come to the wedding, acting normal and dressed like humans, but he didn't let anyone get close to him afterwards. He gave me up for your mother and the little baby you. I'm not going to lie, it broke my heart as much as it did my parents' when he left us. I had no way to look for him, no way to find him. I didn't want to, really, but it was difficult for me."

"Wait." I furrow my brow. "If my father did all of this for my mother and I, why did he leave us? He's obviously hiding most of the truth from you."

"Well, eventually, he sought me out again." Bryon's smile is wry. "Paige had a bit of Nephilim spirit in her as a baby. Nipping, occasional hissing. He wanted to keep her oddities from your mother and you, so he turned to me. I saw you, once, from a distance. After I gave the little girl a bit of therapy, your father made me promise not to tell a soul I'd helped, or that I knew where he was. We shook on it, and… I didn't really leave, I'll admit. I would go on long wanders or take strolls around the planet, but I'd always come back to your city. Your mother's 'demons' frightened me, and I didn't want anything actually coming after his perfect little family, which, in reality, wasn't so perfect. But of course, something did happen."

"What?" I whisper hoarsely, dread slowly speeding my pulse.

Bryon breathes in and then exhales, letting the air out slowly. "Do you remember the day when your dad called you from Wyoming and broke it off with your mother?"

How could I forget? "Yeah."

"He was breaking it off because he was dying. He didn't want you to follow him, to try to find him, to learn the truth about the world around you. So he broke all of your hearts, including his own, and told me to fabricate the evidence. It –" Bryon breaks off, looking at his palms. "It was hard. Harder than I thought."

"Why was he dying?" I demand. "What – why did he leave if he was happy as he was?"

"I don't know," confesses Bryon. "It's not like he told me everything. We weren't pen pals. I do know that this was after he evacuated this very Chaza, and that there were some reported hellhound sightings. For some reason, that idiot was hunting hellhounds again. They're dangerous creatures. He could've probably taken one or two. I have no clue why he approached a pack of fifteen. That secret died with him. I just remember, after having tracked him to those green forests, watching as he fled from a pack nipping at his heels."

"What?" I whisper.

"Don't look at me. Wasn't my idea. Now, your father usually would take flight in such situations, but, as it happened, he couldn't. No wings. So, being the idiot I was, I slid down the ridge and distracted the pack. They focused on me, those red eyes fixing on the Nephilim King. I ran like hell from those things. Your father gave me a glance as I passed over a hill, a glance that almost made my suicidal rescue worth it. Gratitude, and warm, warm, apology. Oh, man, it felt good to see that he didn't hate me like I thought he did.

"I, uh, dispatched of the hellhounds in unpleasant ways. I, unlike your father, spent half of my life training to be a ruthless killer. Of course I could finish off some hellhounds. I don't know what happened while I was gone, really – but I remember limping over the hill, and seeing my brother turn to me. He beamed at me, and lifted his hand to wave hello, blue eyes sparkling the way they used to when he was a boy. Then the red eyes burned to life behind him, and the omega of the pack pounced before I could do anything, mauling my little brother and escaping into the night."

I quiver as tension builds in Bryon's voice.

"I held him in my arms, just the way I did when he was a baby squalling for his mother. He gripped my cloak, and his blood – I shouldn't give you the details. He clawed for his phone, made the call with a steady voice, not saying a word to me. When he hung up, he looked me in the eye, and said, 'Make it right.' And then… he died." Bryon swallows. "For the second time in my life, I'd lost my little sibling. For the second time in my life, I buried my little sibling beneath a full moon."

I fall quiet. "He's _dead_. Truly, properly _dead_. Do you think it was the same hellhound?"

"Maybe." Bryon takes a fascination in the palms of his hands again. "A demon out to get him. Maybe."

"My God," I choke out. "He's… he's… _dead_."

"Your mother wanted to revive him." Bryon's voice is soft, guilty, as he stares at his hands. "She pinned me one day outside of your apartment, ordering me to call the demons. But I wouldn't let her gather them. She'd already sacrificed her sanity to Lucius. I was afraid her children were next. I couldn't bear to be around that flat, though, didn't guard you as I should've, and, soon, this whole angel matter erupted – humans were unaware, but signs were brewing for those with clever eyes, and the Nephilim were looking for answers. I've had no real time to grieve."

"I didn't know I was supposed to be grieving," I breathe. I suppose that, all things considered, he'd been an okay dad. If I take out his betrayal, he'd been pretty great. The fact that he'd died, killed by one of the monsters he'd tried to keep away from Mom and I – it hurts, like a gunshot to the chest. "I've always sort of blamed him for everything with Mom and all, blamed him for not being there, but –" A single tear dribbles over.

"It's alright." Bryon surprises me, wrapping his arms around me. Burying my head into his shoulder, I allow myself to be cradled by my _uncle_. I'm clutched to his chest, held so tightly that his heartbeat resounds through me like a drumbeat. "Somehow, someway, it's alright, Penryn."

* * *

**This is a long, long chapter. But it's time you got some answers, don't you think? **

**POLL: What are you surprised by in this chapter, hmm?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

Bryon takes my hand, swinging me down from the ledge and catching me easily in his muscled arms. He laughs heartily at my frightened grip on him. "Honestly," Bryon chuckles, "do you think I'd let anything happen to little Miss Young?"

"Wait, does the whole 'Young' thing mean that Sariel has a last name?" Slowly unfurling my arms from their strangling grip around his torso, I look into my uncle's eyes with a question. "I didn't think angels would be much into that sort of thing."

"He isn't. Actually, that's a funny story." Bryon marches across the stairs we'd slid down to, testing the next slope. He's been leading me down to the main street again through a rough and rickety path crisscrossing the grooves on the sides of the cavern, sliding from stairwell to stairwell, vaulting off the roofs of buildings to the levels below. Scruffy follows a pace behind us somewhat less nimbly than Bryon's sinuous grace. Without his expertise, I would've tumbled down the steep cavern's walls long ago.

"Careful," Bryon adds over his shoulder as I tail him down the slope, in a surfer position like him as I glide down the steep hill. Bryon catches me again – this time, however, the momentum I'd gained sliding down the slick rock had slammed my body into his, sending him stumbling backwards and nearly sending the two of us off the cliff. "That wasn't very careful," he scolds.

"Yeah, well, there's not exactly safety precautions for me to follow." Shoving hair from my face, I look up into his expressive gaze. "Why is the name 'Young' a funny story?"

"Because it started out as a nickname." Instead of sliding down the next drop, which is practically vertical, Bryon trots down the stairs, his cloak fluttering behind him. He twirls his staff in one hand expertly, spinning it around his fingers. "As soon as my father escaped from the Pit to find my mom, he started calling her Little Mrs. Young, because she was still… _young_. Because of my blood, you know? It stuck, and, when last names became the thing, she kept it."

"You picked it up?" I laugh, just a hair behind him, feet smacking the stone steps in rapid succession.

"Well, sort of. I mean, I use it on passports and such, but just call me Bryon."

"I thought I was supposed to call you Uncle," I remind him, smirking at the back of his head, triumphant at the shivers shaking his shoulders.

"That'd be a novel thought, wouldn't it?" he sighs, a wistful tone shaping the cadency. "_Uncle_. No, unfortunately not – the connection between you and I, the human's hero and the Dragon King? That wouldn't be wise to make, especially with Raphael about."

My skin crawls abruptly as I duck beneath a low door, entering the long waterfall room a breath behind Bryon. Anxiety gnaws at my heart, and a cold stone settles deep in my stomach. "Do you think he'll… abandon us if he finds out?"

"Raphael is sensible." Bryon's warm shoulder brushes mine, the tingling heat lifting my spirits. "He may try to brutally murder me once he realizes that I'm the Nephilim that's escaped him every time, but I have a hard time believing he'd just abandon _you_. He may feel betrayed, confused, maybe even disgusted, but something tells me he won't leave. You are, after all, a Daughter of the Angels instead of a Daughter of Man."

"I want to be a Daughter of Man." My voice is quiet. "I want to be just an average human."

"I'm going to be frank with you." Like two coins in the darkness, Bryon's conciliatory bronze eyes fix on me. "You are practically the average human. Your father never had many angelic traits to pass on – him having six limbs practically consumed my father's end of the bargain – and it seems you didn't inherit a one from him. Well, I take that back. You can pick up angel swords." He gestures towards Pooky Bear generously.

"Raffe said –"

"He was wrong," Bryon dismisses. "If his theory made any sense, she would've rejected you to return to him. I made up some excuse as to why I was able to hold his sword, and, for some miraculous reason, he believed me. Actually, it's quite extraordinary that he hasn't connected the dots already and figured out I'm Nephilim."

"It's probably because you're so docile," I estimate, trailing two fingers through the cold cave water gushing from the falls. "I mean, from what he's described Nephilim himself, he seemed pretty sure you were monsters. As awful as demons."

Bryon exits the waterfall chamber, tapping the end of his staff on one of the lily pads as he departs, sending it caterwauling over the water. Once he's clopped down a few steps, he pauses, eyes searching for another place to drop a level. "Well, in his eyes, we probably are," Bryon mutters, resting a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

Glancing furtively at his handsome face, I question, "Why would he do that?"

Bryon laughs. One of his feet coast down the steep drop, pausing in a nook in the wall. He sets his staff on the ground. "It's not like we had the best relations. He hated me, the dragon Nephilim. I was a creature that he couldn't kill, one that seemed to get away every time. On top of that, in his eyes, I stole his Watchers from him. He simply did not understand love, and I do not believe he does now, either. I suppose, under certain circumstances, the Nephilim are monstrous." Rocks tumble down the cliff from his next step, glancing off the wall. "This area looks risky. I can carry you down."

I glare at him with a judgment balancing inside. Frantically, I try to gauge whether I should trust my uncle, or whether I should do the logical thing and attempt to descend at a better point. Bryon's eyes swim with amorous certainty, his outstretched hand held with a gentle offering. His face is so immaculately trustworthy and his smile is so benevolently soft it seems a sin to refuse him.

"Alright." Blushing furiously, I slip my hand into his. His other arm twists around my waist, lean muscles lifting me without effort. He grips me tightly and holds me against him with one arm, and, to assist his hold, I wrap my arms around his neck and link my ankles around his back.

Bryon's head swivels down, his eyes meeting mine. "Hold on tight, here we go…"

Releasing my hand, Bryon drags his fingers on the hill as he slides down on an invisible skateboard. The next flight of stairs approaches much too rapidly for my liking as we slide vertically, the sharp edges of each ledge like daggers from the earth sent to impale us. With my ever tightening grip, I pin his cloak to his back, but it flutters and snaps around his legs and mine like a dancing butterfly.

At the very last moment before we slam into the stairs, Bryon's free hand catches on a rock, and he holds it tight – we dangle for a few seconds. His grip on me loosens. Receiving the hidden message there, I unravel my legs from his torso, feet hitting the ground uneasily. With slightly rocking steps, I back away from where Bryon will have to fall to the ground, retreated several paces. He falls without trouble, sending a few more stones rolling into the depths of the cavern.

Bronze eyes graze my figure, the sweet concern there melting my heart. "Anything bruised, anything broken? I wouldn't think so, but just in case…"

"I'm fine," I assure, smiling back at him. "Your fingers are probably all bloody."

Bryon chuckles, his jovial amusement released in a roll of the eyes. "I've got callused hands, Penryn. It's not like I pick daisies for a living."

"True." Craning my head back, I squint at the tip of the staff peeking over the ledge. "How are you going to get that back?"

In response, Bryon whistles – the high two-note song quickly draws the attention of our little follower. Scruffy's head appears in the window of the waterfall room, his tongue lolling from his mouth like a fish hanging from a grizzly's maw. With quick, excited strides invigorated by my laughter of recognition, he pads over, tail thrashing violently from side to side. Pacing back and forth above us, he anxiously yips for our attention. On one of his go-rounds, his paw clips the staff, sending it tumbling down the hill.

Bryon scoops it from the hill without a thought wasted, twisting it in one hand to lose the momentum. Leaning on it once more, he whistles to Scruffy again.

The wolf makes a sound halfway between a growl and a mewl, taking one hesitant step over the cliff and slipping. He retreats and whines pathetically, tail tucked.

With a sigh prompted by amusement rather than irritation, Bryon waves an indifferent hand. "Meet us at the bottom, alright? We'll be fine."

As if he understands Bryon's words, Scruffy smiles beatifically and continues plodding along some twenty feet above us, disappearing into another building. Bryon chuckles, swinging his staff about and continuing down our walkway.

"Funny little wolf, isn't he?" Bryon shakes his head. "Good thing he's healing up okay. Hugo would be shattered without Scruffy."

"He said something along the lines of… 'The day he dies is the day I die' one night," I recall with a nod. "I suppose that, through thick and thin, the wolf's always been there with him."

"That's certainly true." Bryon's smile widens. "They're associated with each other. If you see the wolf, the merchant's nearby. If you see the merchant, the wolf's nearby. The Nephilim love him and his snarky sense of humor, love him so much that he's got fanart galore."

"The Nephilim…" Curiosity mounts within me. "You said there were entire cities, towns, of Nephilim. They obviously don't live here anymore, but where did they all go?"

Bryon chuckles, the melodious chords like silk and velvet against one another. "Out and about. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. There's actually a large group aggregating not far from the female aerie, which is where we'll be headed, eventually. There's another smaller group located not far from here at all – by the time we reach its borders, I want Raphael to be fully educated on true Nephilim."

Staring at him sideways, I question, "Is it really a good idea to take Raffe near his hated enemies, even if your peace-making plan works?"

Bryon waves his staff in a dismissive gesture. "You've got ahold of Pooky Bear, and I'm just as good a fighter as him _with_ weapons. I'd have a town on my side as well, not to mention the oldest Nephilim and the wolf and merchant. I'll make Raphael listen to reason, you watch. Oh, he'll try to kill me, but I'll talk him out of it."

"You'll _talk_ him out of it?" I snort, smothering all out laughter. "What are you planning to do, sit him down and have a long discussion about life decisions?"

"Actually, I believe that my usual strategy will serve me well. Ducking, dodging, and battering him with cold hard logic." Bryon winks, long lashes waving with sweet salutations. "If you're on my side, I doubt that he'll last very long, anyhow."

My stomach bucks at that, my cheeks warming like little infernos. Hurriedly, I question, "So… uh… how are you going to dodge Raffe? I mean, he's a pretty fierce fighter."

"I know." Bryon chuckles darkly, a livid gleam dancing in his eyes for less than a second. "But I've found a way to counter his fighting efficiently. Swing at me with Pooky Bear."

It takes me a moment to fully process what he'd said, and another to clasp my hand around the hilt of Raffe's vicious sword. I've been avoiding her touch recently – if I so much as glance at Bryon, passionate hate colors our bond. Now, she revels at our connection, hissing at me to slice him up. If I swing at Bryon, I have no doubt she'll drive my strike into his heart somehow.

"You sure?" I ask hesitantly, waiting to draw Pooky Bear until the last second. I peek over the edge to where the next flight of stairs looms, jagged edges grinning broadly at me. "This isn't exactly a prime place."

"Don't worry." Bryon's smile is so much more inviting than the malicious smirk of the steps. "I won't let you fall."

"That wasn't what I was worried about," I mutter, but I draw Pooky Bear. With a hiss of leather and metal, she kisses the air, her silver tooth shining in the darkness of the cavern like a beacon of heaven in the pits of hell. Bryon grins at her, but he doesn't settle into a ready stance like I do, even cast his cloak aside to spare it from her merciless blade. His grip on his staff, however, does tighten, and his muscles do flex.

Hesitantly, not putting full strength into the blow, I strike. Pooky Bear's eagerness sends it lashing forward like a snake's bite.

Bryon moves in sync with me, and Pooky Bear clashes against stone with a bitter snarl of hatred. He now stands half a step from the place he'd been, simply sidestepping the cut.

Putting more energy into Pooky Bear, I swing again, a wide sweep meant to slice him in half.

Bryon pulls a Matrix-like move, bending back and dropping beneath the blade, letting it sweep harmlessly above him. Without ever touching the ground with his hands, Bryon pulls back, grinning devilishly.

Ignoring my sword's pleas to stab Bryon through the heart, I attempt a beheading maneuver, and Pooky Bear sings.

Bryon's staff pauses her blow. It slams against the wood with a screeching halt, not even denting the mottled surface. With a cocky smile as Pooky and I both sit dumbfounded, Bryon flicks his staff and rips her handle from my grasp, sending Pooky Bear clattering to the ground.

"Of course, you are an amateur," Bryon admits, leaning down to pick Pooky Bear up for me, "and Raphael is one of the elite, but the game will be somewhat the same. If Raphael is considered a god among warriors, I am a god among those that needn't fight at all."

"Don't get too big a head," I scold, but I'm too impressed to give him the beat down he deserves. "I take it I'm not a slightest threat to you?"

"Few things are," Bryon apologizes civilly, approaching half a step. "Are you injured in any way?"

I laugh in amusement. "You didn't hurt me. Why do you keep asking that?"

"Because I've hurt people before," Bryon responds ominously, gaze slipping from mine and resting on the floor. "In the most unlikely of places. If I had harmed you in any way, it would've been best had I known immediately."

"Oh." Awkwardness wrenches my gut, pulling it into a taut knot. As I gaze into those gleaming eyes, those discs of regal bronze, I find myself recounting his words. Of a beast. Of a monster. Residing inside of him. Breathing with every inhale and exhale of his lungs. At that plunges us both into a silence that seems to stretch onwards forever, draping story after story of descent in thick awkwardness.

As silence overwhelms the sensation of company, I find myself pondering simple matters and complex alike. Bryon is the center of my deep thoughts, and Raffe the king of the petty. Raffe had seemingly taken an attachment to Penryn, Daughter of Man – could he do the same to… what was it he'd said? Daughter of the Angels? What does that mean? The blood of the filthy birdbrains that'd shattered my world runs through my veins, circulating with each heartbeat? Or, instead of the world of the humans, do I belong to this fantasy palace built around me, carved from stone and sculpted by the hands of a man who believed himself a beast?

And Bryon. What kind of a man is the one that claims he is no better than the common demon, but all his actions point to him being a saint? What kind of a man claims that he has hurt people in the most simple of situations, but bows before the little child crisscrossed with stitches and blue with bruises as if she is his queen? What kind of a man admits to hating an angel that's destroyed his entire world with sadness in his tongue, as if his inability to forgive is a sin of the most grievous fault?

What kind of man is my uncle?

Surely there is no monster residing in this peaceful giant, though his bronze eyes gleam like a demon's. Surely this is Bryon, not some bizarre creature. As we slink down from level to level, I spy on his polite gestures and the modest love filling his eyes – not just for me, but as if the entire world around him is his friend. It's unsettling, to see the candid trust clear across his face as he relies on me to help him down as we reach the bottom stories.

The last level to from the end is finally where Bryon strikes up the conversation. "I do hope I haven't driven you off. Scared you or anything. I wouldn't do a thing to harm you or your sister, and it has been a very many years since I've harmed anyone at all. I fear hurting those who mean much to me, and that makes me overprotective. Don't be afraid of me, I beg."

"I'm not afraid," I claim, unsure how much of what I say is truth. "I'm just trying to figure out what world I'm entering. I mean, I'm technically a Nephilim, right? Angel and human blood?"

"True." Bryon's gaze is molten bronze. "If you're worried about Raphael turning on you, he'd never do that."

"That wasn't what I was worried about," I sigh, "and I don't think you can be so sure. Raffe's tough as steel. He'll do what he thinks is right and not bat an eye about it."

Bryon chuckles, trotting down the last staircase. "You may know a side of Raphael that I do not believe I will ever become acquainted with, but do not think that I do not know him at all. The first rule of war is to know your enemy. No one is invincible, no one can harden themselves completely to the world. I've known Raphael for enough years to know that it's true for angels as well as the rest of us."

I glance at him sideways, brow folded. "Why do you try to find good in everybody?"

Bryon is silent for a long time, eyes skyward. "Because if someone had given Janiel a hand in her madness, there is a chance that she would've been able to fend of madness's barbed offers. Because if maybe a random stranger would've tipped their hats to deformed Ogden as he passed in the streets with regards to his injuries, maybe he wouldn't be so shy, so self-conscious. Because perhaps if someone had given Ariel the respect she deserves, she wouldn't have sought out monsters to mar her skin and scar her flesh to show that she is indeed equal to what is in fact a lesser sex. If you see that even the most damaged of people is still – well – _human_, then you will find the world do be a much more wretched place. It is all I can to do help those that need me."

I whistle in awe. "You're like a new version of Jesus."

"Not quite." Bryon's smile is grim. His feet hit the ground level at last, and he continues with broad strides over the main street. "Jesus was very different than me. Would you believe it, we did not get along."

"Of course." Sighing through my nose, I roll my eyes. "My uncle knew Jesus. That's perfectly normal."

"Hush," Bryon shushes, extending a splayed palm behind him to silence me. "They're only in the other room, and I wish to sneak up on Hugo."

The memories of how Hugo had distracted the shirtless Bryon to allow Ogden to slink up behind him by the creekbed flows back vividly. I smile with all my teeth, the soft brush of my feet against the stone growing even softer.

"Where are they?" I murmur, eyes probing the shadows for a sign of brazen flickering fire peeking through one of the windows, or the silhouette of a man against the gentle illumination of the glowing flowers.

"The next room over, against the wall. Keep quiet. They'll be listening. And, at a certain point, I'll signal you. Stop there."

With a nod and an exchange of gazes, we plunge into the darkness with a fervor not found before. The fall of Bryon's feet seemingly does not happen at all, his staff hitting the ground with each stride but not a sound emerging from the contact which had before created the _clack-clack-clack_. His cloak sways, fabric my only incentive upon where my elusive uncle may be. I follow the swish of brown silently as I can, awaiting eagerly Bryon's attempt to spook Hugo.

It isn't long before the arch leading to the next cavern looms overhead, the thousands of jewels and precious metals studding its surface catching the slightest light and sending it gleaming back at us, like little eyes in the darkness. Bryon strides proudly through without faltering, gesturing for me to do the same. Settling into a stealthier walk, I slink behind him.

The orange flame tints the floor around it. Against the fire, Hugo's figure is coiled and graceful, like a lynx flexing its claws over the neck of his little guitar. Ogden is barely visible, the only thing I truly catch wind of the front rag of his oily apron and his muscled arms fiddling with metal scraps before the embers. Paige's pale form is against his side, hugging one arm with wide eyes. Upon first glance, there is no Raffe – unless you look beyond the glare of the flame to see him pacing back and forth restlessly, casting a fearsome shadow against the walls.

They seem to be in deep conversation, but I'm too far from them to catch what they may be saying. I wonder how Bryon's going to pull this gig – his vigorous pacing drones out any of the noises he may make, but Raffe's sight can penetrate the darkness Bryon uses as a shield. Maybe unintentionally, Raffe will give my uncle away. But, as I study his position more, the more I am convinced it can be done. In his agitated pacing, Raffe is not surveying the shadows very well. His own bloated shape dancing over the wall is enough distraction. A fire also separates Bryon and Raffe – it's difficult to see beyond a light into darkness, especially if the things lurking there don't want to be seen.

Bryon's hand twitches. I pause, feeling vulnerable in the middle of the open floor. There isn't a stone for me to crouch beside or a wall to lean against. But I freeze, letting stillness perform its duty.

From here, I can catch the conversation, echoing off the stone.

"– just saying," Raffe's voice comes, irritated quality thick in each syllable, "it would be an easier task to listen out for them if you weren't killing cats over there."

"Killing cats?" Hugo barks indignantly, his head swiveling from side to side with each of Raffe's turns. "I am making music. Your pacing was driving me mad! Why are you listening out for them, anyway?"

Raffe freezes for a second, turning to Hugo. In the same heartbeat, Bryon pauses in his crouch, completely invisible to all except me. For a moment, his extended silence makes me believe that Raffe has spotted Bryon creeping up on the group, but he continues same as ever.

"I don't know. There's something about this place that's not right. Like it was never inhabited by anything other than ghosts. I don't like them out there."

"Oh?" Hugo's form straightens, as if the bantering had taken an interesting turn. "I can't imagine why you'd be uncomfortable about them alone in the darkness. Alone in the darkness, surrounded by hundreds of houses and comfy little rooms. Concealed from prying eyes, hidden from the Wrath of Wraths. Bryon comforting her, being her shoulder to cry on, helping her limp home with a smile at his lips. Maybe a smile isn't the only thing at his lips. No, I can't possibly comprehend it, Pigeon-Bat. Why are you so uncomfortable with Penryn and Bryon, all alone in the darkness of this beautiful tourist attraction?"

Disgust muddles the pit of my stomach. Perhaps it is only to toy with Raffe in a catty superiority, but the idea that Hugo knows he's my uncle and still dangles me before Raffe sends queer shudders of repulsion through me. I search for Bryon, to see his reaction to Hugo's licentious ploys, only to find that he has been lost in the sea of shadows, shrouded from my eyes.

Raffe's reaction, though quickly claims my attention.

He snarls like an animal, black wings quivering threateningly on his back. But instead of pouncing, he continues pacing, slightly more vigorously than before. If he hadn't that adamant will, he might've leapt on Hugo right then and there, scythes unsheathed and fists hungry. I don't have a doubt that Hugo's been at this for ages, irritating Raffe in each chance he receives.

"Look," Hugo offers, "if you're getting so uptight about this, I can just use my foolhardy Bryon-calling tactic. It always works?"

"Oh?" Raffe sighs. "What is that?"

"The Spirit soundtrack." Hugo steadies the guitar in his lap, plucking at some strings intuitively. "'Homeland', 'Reunion', and 'Here I Am' usually work for that little fucker."

Raffe sighs wearily. "If it makes you happy."

And, at those words, Hugo's hands glide up and down the guitar in a softly romantic melody, one that carries both beauty and weight. Carried by the drifting tune, I blink, relaxing in the darkness. Though it's not obvious, I see Raffe's shoulders release their tautness as well throughout the length of the beautiful song.

Upon the last note, Raffe questions, "So… where is the giant?"

"That usually does draw him out," Hugo murmurs thoughtfully, brow furrowing. "I wonder if…"

"He's right behind you?" Bryon seems to rise from the shadows, liquid form solidifying into ice. Hugo scrambles backwards, lashing out with his guitar. It would've hit Bryon in the jaw if he hadn't ducked quite so quickly. Disdainfully, Bryon watches as it swings through the air. "That could've hit me, you know."

"Jesus Christ!" Hugo yelps. "You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!"

"I hope your heart attack doesn't engage in intercourse." Bryon reclines beside Hugo, humming with smug content.

"Oh, you think you're hilarious, don't you, smartass?" Hugo snarls, waving his hands in the air. "You're not! You're really fucking not!" Hugo holds a hand up to Bryon's face. "Don't you dare."

Raffe, who hadn't truly reacted to Bryon's appearance, seems to scan the shadows. He steps closer to the flames in attempt to draw nearer towards my general direction, allowing me a scintillating view of his anxiety as he searches. My heart splutters briefly as his gaze claps against mine and his expression momentarily softens before it hardens into Adonis-like marble beauty once more.

I rise and stride towards the flame, refusing to break the tentative eye contact until the fire's wrath becomes too great. With each stride in his direction, I'd like to believe that Raffe gets a little less tense. Ignoring Bryon's and Hugo's playful bickering, I walk until find myself next to Raffe. The heat of the fire kisses my skin, and light dances across my face. Leaning against the hard stone wall, I relish the cool stone versus the fire's warmth with absurd pleasure. Heaving a guttural sigh, Raffe eases against the side of the cavern beside me. Not once glancing my direction, he does gently brush my shoulder with his elbow.

"Where have you been?" he mutters, voice not carrying above the spirited conversation. Glancing once in my direction with glittering eyes, Raffe admits, "I've been worried. There's no telling how much trouble you can get yourself into."

"I guess I can always count on Feathered Armor to scoop me out of trouble." I poke his elbow, smiling up at him. "You shouldn't have been worrying, though. Bryon was just showing me some artwork, and the history of this place. It was so boring it was relaxing."

Raffe chuckles darkly. "Nice, safe places are rather dull, aren't they? Not at all exciting. Nothing to pump the blood."

Laughing to myself, I turn my eyes up to Raffe's. "There are plusses and minuses. At least in here, there's no killer cherub angel things."

Accompanying my laugh with his, Raffe meets my gaze. "I don't know, the 'killer cherub angel things' would've made it worthwhile. Imagine how boring life would be without challenges. No, if it had been just me, I do believe I would've taken my chances."

I do not laugh at this, I do not dare laugh. For if he had been on his own, he never would have been in that sort of a situation. He would've never been involved in such a fiasco if it had just been him. He would've flown off, far from the area before the cherubs could reach him.

I look away from his gaze, falling silent.

* * *

I again dream of the white-haired angel – Audiat.

Except this time, she's in danger.

_I had joined the dream too late to see how the beautiful she-angel had managed to get herself ensnared in the messy folds of barbed wire and spiked thorns set up. It seems as if it'd been created to catch the graceful arches of an angel's wings in its serrated jaws, each tooth curved to impale. _

_Desperately, she claws at the wing that'd been entangled by the iron trap, glancing fearfully over the horizon from where sounds of dogs barking and men calling echo. A gunshot hisses. Spooked by the sudden noise, her hands slips, and her arm falls onto another of the spikes. She screams with alarm as the fangs slide effortlessly into her flesh and wails as barbed wire wraps around like containing arms. _

_Baring her teeth, she kicks at the mess of wire and spikes, flapping her free wing vigorously. High-pitched sounds of exhaustion begin to whine from her throat, but her determination only seems to grow with each new strip of barbed wire that twines around her various limbs. The dogs grow nearer and nearer as she struggles to escape. _

_Crying out with frustration, Audiat slams the heel of her boot into the heart of the mess as people cross over the distant hill. They're dark brown against the horizon, a bitter change from the mossy green of everything else in the forest. Audiat howls in pain as her foot is captured by the snare. Breathing heavily, she strains one last time against the trap, but only manages to send a barbed spike all the way through her forearm, and to sink one even deeper into her ankle. _

_The men begin to laugh and catcall as they approach, lifting bizarre, futuristic guns over their heads and jeering in strange tongues. Their savagery is obvious to me as they slink closer to the injured she-angel, the primitive hunger in their eyes frightening. I have only seen little Audiat in two dreams, and, in both, I've found myself fearing for her. _

_Before the toothy-grinned men can reach her, though, a shadow moves among the forest, a much brighter shade of brown than the musky hunting clothes of the humans. It dances like a shadow as a figure races down a steep hillside, perpendicular to the approaching humans. I know who it is before he bolts into the light, know the flutter of that brown cloak enough to recognize his approach. _

_Bryon slams on the breaks as he enters Audiat's little clearing, his bronze eyes wide. In his prime, his lower twenties, his dashing handsomeness is again like a slap to the face – it seem surreal to have him as an uncle of all things. The sunlight filters from above, fusing his brown hair with chatoyant gold and bronze. The only thing missing from the picture is a staff twirling in one hand. _

_Audiat whips around, her red eyes wide. Shrieking in alarm, she tries to smack him with the broad of her free wing. Bryon ducks effortlessly, allowing the red roan feathers to sail over his head. Not allowing her the time for another blow, he bolts forward, fingers roaming frenetically over the barbed wire. After undoing a few coils by hand, he curses and pulls out a pocket knife from one pocket. _

_"What are you doing?" Audiat yells, hitting the back of his head with her wing. _

_"Duck," responds Bryon with his signature voice like church bells, swiftly throwing an arm over her shoulder and dragging her to the ground. A bullet whistles over their head. Without even registering it, Bryon continues to hack at the wires trapping Audiat. The wires popping and quivering into place, he frees her arm before moving onto her wing. _

_"Who the hell are you?" whispers Audiat, flexing her hand experimentally, but then grimacing in agony. "Why are you doing this?"_

_Bryon glances back at her wounded arm, wincing in sympathy. "Ouch. Try not to move that, I'll stitch it up later."_

_More bullets scream overhead, burying themselves deep into the trunks of trees. The men draw closer, not even a hundred yards away. Their dogs bay at the ends of their chains. _

_"Who are you?" the she-angel repeats impatiently. With a twang, her leg comes free. Tenderly, Bryon helps her slide the barbed hooks from her flesh with steady hands and a slow touch. Audiat cries out softly, but he calms her with a stroke down her shin. _

_"I am Bryon." Rising into a crouch where the peak of his back is visible over the mesh of wires, he hacks savagely at the wires disgruntling Audiat's magnificent red feathers. With one hand, he slices, and with the other, he straightens her feathers and inspects wounds. _

_Cursing colorfully, Audiat watches the men approach with wide red eyes. "Well, Bryon, I'm grateful for your chivalry, but if there's any way you could hurry, it'd be great." _

_"There." Bryon releases a slow breath and cuts through the last piece of barbed wire, removing his bruised hands from the mess. His own blood trickled down his fingers, landing on the ground in heavy crimson drops. "Can you ease it from the spikes quickly? I do not think there's the time."_

_"Oh." Audiat's high voice impossibly skyrockets to another octave as she grimaces painfully. Her hand gropes for something to squeeze as she starts to pull her wing from the barbs, allowing me my first glance at its grotesquely splintered appearance and the unnatural bend in its frame. Bryon allows her to grip his hand with a squeeze I know can't be pleasant for him to endure. "Oh. Oh, God, oh, God Almighty." _

_She sighs with relief as the last barb slips from her skin, tension leaving her shoulders. But Bryon does not relax at the new development. Instead, he turns rapidly, snatching Audiat into his arms. Her two wings hand between his arms. He cradles her tiny form like a child against his chest, heedless of her struggles. _

_"Trust me," Bryon thunders as she raises her fist to smite him. "Please. Just trust me." His bronze eyes glow as he rises to his full height, rocketing down the hill at full speed. The men holler at him primitively, shaking their guns in disappointment. A few shoot at him. Most bullets ricochet off the surrounding terrain, missing Bryon's swiftly fleeing form by a wide margin, but one finds its mark. _

_Bryon stumbles as a projectile buries itself in his shoulder. His breath catches, and Audiat's eyes widen. _

_But still, he runs onward, legs pounding against the earth, until he's far beyond the reach of the hunters' weapons, escaping into the green woods with the wounded she-angel cradled in his grasp. _

* * *

My eyes snap open, revealing nothing but eerie darkness and the flicker of dying embers. There is no one up but Scruffy, his reflective eyes gleaming in the darkness. Gaze landing on the slumbering Bryon, curled up with his cloak and staff, I can't help but wonder what happened after that. I don't have a doubt it's where he first met Audiat, but I wonder if it's also where something much more important than that began as well.

Humming quietly beneath my breath, I sigh and snuggle into my musty blankets, warm beneath their coarse fabric and content in the circle of those I know will protect me and my sister.

* * *

**First and foremost, very sorry for not updating for so long! It seems like it's been ages, and I realized just how much I've missed your reviews! I've been so weighed down by school and other activities that I haven't had the time to type. When I do, it's too late to really jot anything down but utter crap. Bear with me, I beg!**

**POLL: Bryon hates Raffe – it's said, it's done, it's known. But do you think he's the sort of fellow that may highly disapprove of a relationship with Wrath of God and his niece? The sort of fellow that may do something to stop it if it grows too potent?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

It isn't until the boy laughs that I realize I'm yet again dreaming vividly.

_"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he laughs, joyously springing from rock to rock like a mountain goat. The majestic red and orange sheer cliffs are no match for his monkeylike agility. His legs and arms seem almost too large for his body, like gangly additions to his limbs. When his two bare feet smack the sandy bottom of the canyon, he rises without difficulty or strain, still smiling broadly. _

_Unease shivers over me. The boy's cinnamon hair and his coppery eyes are all too familiar – he's a spitting image of Hugo, except… it's also not. Too tall, too lean, too smiley. The twinkling excitement in his eyes is a boyish quality that Hugo simply doesn't have. _

_The focus of his attention is pale against the bright canyon background. Slender limbs and aerodynamic feathers bat uselessly at the air. An angel struggles to right itself, her albino hair sifting through the red dust. One of her wings is splashed with wet, glistening crimson, bent at a cruel angle. Desperately, she kicks out at him, hissing in defense. _

_"Whoa there," the boy soothes, hopping closer. His eyes dart about playfully. "I won't hurt you. Probably couldn't hurt you if I tried. Mentally _or_ physically. There's no way that I'd be able to overpower an angel. Set a trap for an angel, maybe. But fight one?" He whistles in awe. "Wait, am I babbling?"_

_"Scram!" the she-angel hisses, huddling in a pathetic warrior crouch. I can't tell if she's naturally this pale, or if it's from the blood loss of her massive wing-wound. Her amethyst purple eyes are suspicious, alarmingly bright against the rest of her – in fact, the she-angel's appearance reminds me slightly of Josiah and his vibrant eyes against his light color arrangement. _

_"I can't fight an angel, but I'm sure as hell not afraid of one." The boy strides closer, folding his hands behind his back as he studies her wings. "Hmm. That doesn't look good. You know, this is a very dangerous part of the canyon. Lots of meanies lurking about."_

_"Then why are you here?" the she-angel growls, continuing to swivel as he stalks in large circles around her. _

_The boy's eyes twinkle a bit brighter. "Because danger and I, we've got this thing where we try to outlive each other. It's the most fun in the world, I'll teach you how to play the game some time. But right now, you don't look so great. How bad is your wing?"_

_"I can still snap a neck," the she-angel threatens, her intact feathers bristling. Alarm, fearful and uncertain, dominates her proud features. _

_"It looks snapped." The boy nods to himself, inching closer. "Right through the bone. Yikes. You know, there's a healer in the village. If you want, I can take you to him."_

_The she-angel's taut posture softens slightly, her pale eyebrows furrowing in misunderstanding. "Village? You are not from a city?"_

_With a merry laugh, the boy tosses his head up. His cheery chortles hold the kind of affable joy that almost makes me want to laugh along with him. When his laughter does quiet down, the boy is still wiping his eyes, grinning broadly. _

_"Do I look like I'm from a city?" He gestures at his threadbare clothing with an amused wave of the hand. "Well? Do I look like one of those butt-kissing snobs? No, rural and proud. We don't need technology to do everything for us around here, and it makes us better people. Better people to everyone, might I add. Look, I have a farm, down the way a bit. Me and my family."_

_"Oh." The she-angel blinks. She narrows her dark purple eyes suspiciously, shrewdly studying his figure. "What are you doing so far out here?"_

_"I told you." He smirks cockily, striding up to the she-angel with a gangly lope. "Attracting trouble." His shadow falls over her, lean and twisted. Extending one hand to her, the boy questions, "So, angel, what's your name? We've got to tell the doctor something, after all."_

_Cautiously, the she-angel takes his hand. Her slender fingers slip into his knobby and calloused working hands. Distrust still shines in her eyes, but she allows his farmer-boy muscles to heft her from the ground, leaning against his rock strength. As the boy positions her arm over his neck so he can lift most of her weight, the she-angel answers. _

_"Janiel." She shifts her weight, laying it against the boy's ready position. "My name is Janiel. What do they call you?"_

_"Janiel?" The boy laughs, taking the first hobbling step forward. Red dust mushrooms in the air around his stride, staining the she-angel's white garbs with ruddy smears. "Janiel is a long name. You mind if I call you Jane? Or Feathers?"_

_"Do _not_ call me Jane."_

_"Sure thing, Feathers." Head swiveling, the boy faces her with an abrogating smirk. "My name's Ivan. But don't call me that, it's no fun. Call me, I dunno, Dusty or something. My friends call me Dusty. My little brother doesn't, though."_

_The she-angel casts one puzzling glance in his direction. "What does your brother call you, then… Dusty?"_

_Ivan grins broadly. "Scruffy. My little brother calls me Scruffy."_

* * *

With a strangled gasp, I awaken, snapping upright. My obnoxious breathing fills the air like the crackling of plastic, impossible to ignore. From against the wall, the wolf's head rises slightly, ears tilting towards my direction and eyes saturated with curiosity. And, in that moment, terrible grief rips through me.

I stare at Hugo's poised sleeping form – he's curled in the fetal position against Scruffy's side, ever muscle tense. Not a blanket shields him from the cold, not a pillow cushions his head. But he seems strangely at home, at peace, against his wolf's side.

It's as if I can see the scared little boy longing for his big, scruffy brother and naming his pet wolf after that fallen family member.

Yes. Hugo must've named his wolf after his brother.

That must be what happened.

And the fact that Scruffy's mate is a wolf named Jane must be a pure coincidence.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. With quivering limbs, I rise from the blankets, shrugging off their oily folds. Paige stirs as I rise, curling in on herself more, but luckily, her breath does not quicken into a pace of coherency. It's not until I have a higher vantage point on the sleeping travelers that I realize one of our number is missing from the ranks, and that a light shines way in the distance, a single droplet of orange paint on a black canvas, down the long corridor.

Glancing once down at Raffe's peaceful slumbering face, I break into a slow jog, trying to measure my steps and keep them as silent as possible. But sneakers against stone have never been known to create the softest noise. Wincing with each stride, I draw nearer and nearer to the light, drawing the attention of the man who lifts the torch.

I can catch Bryon's bronze eyes gleam from quite a distance, like an animal's feral reflectiveness. He lifts the torch higher to cast more light over the ground I tread upon as I approach, watching me in silence until I arrive, puffing, standing by his side.

"What are you doing up?" Bryon murmurs, the malleable concern shaping his expression without a trace of reluctance or selfishness. He claps one hand on my upper forearm, as if to steady me should I fall. "Did I wake you? If I did, well, sorry. I thought everyone was out cold."

"They are," I reassure him, smiling frailly. "I just… remember how I said I've been having weird dreams? I just want to escape them."

Bryon's eyes widen. His concerns seem to have only been whetted by my excuse. "Are they bothering you? I'm sure we could brew something up to help you sleep. It wouldn't take but a moment."

"No." Curtly, I shake my head. "No, I'm up now. I'll hate myself in the morning, but I'm up. And you know what? So are you. What are you doing, Bryon?"

"Viewing the art down this chamber." Bryon pivots towards the wall, revealing that it is in fact not stone, but instead a massive mural, depicting an angel about fifteen feet tall. "It would be extremely rude of me to do so in front of Raphael. He can be obnoxious and impolite, but I sure as heck won't."

"Why?" I half-cock my head towards him. "And what am I looking at?"

Bryon's voice is abruptly quiet. "You're looking at the interpretation of the Seven Deadly Sins." The light flickers sinisterly over his face. "And Raphael is depicted as one of them. It would not be right."

"Oh." I, too, lower my volume, and study the brawny angel. Amber and orange flames lick around him, his frame engulfed by the fire, glinting off his armor. "Which sin is this?"

Bryon takes a step forward, pressing the palm of his hand to the old, crinkling paint. "Pride. Sin of Michael."

An angel's pride is a sin. How deliciously ironic.

"And the next?" Striding to the edge of Bryon's torchlight, I gaze up into the eyes of the angel. This one is more coiled in his nest of blue and purple flames, his eyes narrower and his sneer curled over his lips. Bryon follows me with a slower gait, ancient wisdom gleaming in his eyes.

"Sloth. Sin of Haniel."

"Haniel?" I glance up at him in confusion. "Who's that?"

"Actually, Thea took him out earlier in the sequence of this building war with her attack of New York. He is no longer a problem. His sin is that he saw Gabriel take power, but did nothing to stop it – he was comfortable, and so he would stay that way. Onto the next one?"

I nod numbly. But as the torchlight illuminates the grey and silver flames coddling with the angel smirking cleverly from the paint on the next mural, I find that an explanation is not necessary.

"Uriel," I whisper. "What sin is he known for?"

"Envy. Uriel was not driven by ambition to bid for the place as angelic Messenger. He was always envious of those that had something better than him – do you remember when I told you that some angels were mistreated because they were intelligent when Gabriel seized control? He was caught in that flood, and it made him bitter and jealous."

"Oh." Awkwardness plagues me; it's much simpler to imagine that Uriel had always been bad instead of picturing him as a bullied outcast finally getting the respect he deserves.

"I'm not saying his pitiful past reconciles his other wrongs," Bryon adds after a moment of silence. "There are many ways you can deal with loneliness, and he chose the worst path. But with even the most wretched creature, there is a motive for everything. You must remember that. Come now, let's not dwell on him any longer."

"Alright." Considering this, I gaze up into the golden eyes of the next angel. White flames tipped in metallic gold coil around him, the smug superiority on his face downright irritating, even if it is solely a painting.

Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly. "Greed. Sin of Gabriel."

"Gabriel?" I tilt my head towards Bryon. "Why him?"

Bryon shrugs, still walking, gradually leaving the angel behind. "His thirst for power was great, and, in the end, his greed was his undoing. There is not much to be said in his case."

"Good." I release a short puff of air. Gesturing towards the oily black fire with red centers and the sly angel with black feathers, I await Bryon's response.

"Lust." Bryon's expression blackens. "Sin of Jerahmeel, the first Watcher, the one who will never rise from that Pit. He did not take a wife out of love or affection. He simply wanted to enjoy the pleasures he believed that would arise from a female's submission. His bones will forever lay on the bottom of Hell, cracking form the weight of the demons and monstrosities he bears. It's what he deserves, after putting Ogden through living hell."

I glance sideways at Bryon, surprise fueling my tone of voice. "This Jerahmeel guy, this is Ogden's father?"

Bryon's lips quirk. "I told you Ogden wasn't to be meddled with. He was there for most of the ancient history that's taught in schools. But let us not waste time – there are two more to go."

"Right." I tap the green paint of the flames in question. "Who's this guy, what did he do?"

"Gluttony. Sin of Selaphiel." Bryon's brow furrows. "Actually, I don't know the particulars of his sin. I do know that, during a siege on the angels, he hoarded his food supplies so he would be plenty cozy while his companions starved. A pretty selfish thing to do."

"Hmm." I'm about to ask about the next one, but my eyes clap upon the figure, and I know. My stomach reels at the brutality of the painting, the wild gleam in Wrath's eyes.

_Wrath of God. _

He had so arrogantly titled himself it when we had first met. But this picture of him brings about a new meaning to the name.

Crimson flames the exact color of freshly spilled blood lap at his caramel figure. There is primal ugliness in his posture alongside the angelic beauty. Snowy wings sharply contrast the copper paint heading every tongue of flame. He bears his feathers with fury, his hands closed around Pooky Bear's hilt, muscles prepared for any threat. The cruelty in each stroke of the brush almost does not unite with the angel I know.

And yet, in some way, deep in my stomach, it does.

"Raffe," I whisper around the building lump in my throat, reaching out to brush the painting with the tips of my fingers. Even if I were to jump and to strain, my hand would not reach beyond his shin. Seeing his portrait here, amongst the other angels in a chamber that'd been carved from the earth centuries before, I can't help but truly think about Raffe, and all he has done.

"Wrath." Bryon sighs wearily, his eyes roaming over the mural. "Such a strange title for him, 'Wrath of God.' The only wrath he ever experiences is his own bitterness, and yet he blames his authorities, sticking to his rules and codes of how the world works and how he _must_ behave to aid the flailing conscience he has left. Now, his decisions are his to make. I wonder if he wants to even keep such a title."

"He said he's done terrible things," I whisper softly, spanning half the gap separating the painting and I with one tentative hand. "Just how terrible, Bryon? What got him this sort of painting?" I study the savage anger lining the painted face.

It is a long time before Bryon answers. "Raphael lives in a harsh and belligerent world, where blades are hidden in the cushions of every couch. What he always seems to forget is that just because the world is cruel doesn't mean he has to be." Bryon glances sideways at me, an emotion I can't quite comprehend shining in his eyes. "Promise me, Penryn, that you'll never forget, alright?"

Startled by the sudden request, I meet his gaze with reprehensible speed. "I'll try my best not to."

The answer doesn't seem quite satisfactory to Bryon, but he takes it. Staring up at the massive Raffe once more, he releases a ratiocinating sigh. "I know much more than anyone about Raphael's sins and his demons, but, in the same respect, I feel like I know his soul, his being, very well. I know him well enough to tell you that he doesn't want you to know his past. I respect him as an adversary enough to refuse to impart with any knowledge you don't already have in check."

"You two fought often, then?" I question quietly, staring up at the giant Raffe, lost in distant thought.

"Very often," Bryon recalls, dry smile pulling at his lips. "I would always meet the brunt of the storm, distracting him and drawing him away from any Nephilim lairs he may stumble upon."

"You did that as a dragon, right?" I check, glancing once in his direction for confirmation.

"Yes." Bryon smirks to himself. "He was nimble compared to me, but I still managed to escape every time."

"You're big, then?"

"Oh, yes, very big." Bryon's smile broadens. "Even back in those days."

"How big?" I inquire curiously, eyes darting up and down his muscled body.

Bryon chuckles, a melodious sound like the ringing of bells. "_Very_ big. Large enough to make women weep and children run. I'd show you if I could, but…"

"Raffe." I nod. "Right. Okay. Maybe some other time."

"Oh, yes," snarls a new voice, "God forbid Raffe step in and ruin everything." He melts from the shadows, arms folded tautly across his chest, fists balled, and lips pulled back into something grim that looks almost like a dog's growl. The shadows play with his angered expression, laughing and dancing as he stalks up to Bryon with pissed strides. Upon his approach, Bryon stiffly straightens, lifting his chin and tilting his head slightly.

As Raffe draws near, I realize just how inappropriate the last topic of our conversation could've sounded like to one not "in the know". The color drains from my face.

"Raffe," I whisper, rigid as a board. "What are you –"

"Investigating the distant voices and absence of two happy campers," he answers before I can finish the question. Still, his furious gaze does not waver from Bryon's. "You haven't been very quiet. Tell me, what exactly are you two doing in the middle of the night that requires long walks in the dark?"

"He's just showing me some of the artwork! Pretty paintings!" I protest, stepping forward, attempting to wedge my body between the two fuming giants. Their testosterone has led them to a point far beyond my reach, though, and I can feel the dissonance in the room exciting.

Bryon's even yet pissed gaze is considerably threatening. "Penryn's been having rough dreams. I suppose _you_ wouldn't have noticed, but she needed to get her mind off of them. We were having a fine time in the middle of the night."

"She seems to be just fine." Raffe's jaw clenches. "Well enough to interrogate."

"Yes, well, it's amazing what a bit of loving, tender care can do for a person." Bryon bristles, and it's clear that he's not backing down. "As if you'd know anything about that."

"_Enough!_" I bellow out, stamping a foot in frustration. My instincts go wild – a mouse is not supposed to interrupt a vicious battle between predators, and I know that. Evidently, both Raffe and Bryon know that as well. Raffe straightens his spine, pulling back into a regal state of rage. His malevolent glare focuses on me, brilliant eyes narrowing with the magnificent brutality of a predator. Bryon's thin-lipped grimness doesn't change in the slightest, his umbrage visible in his bronze gaze.

From somewhere down the hall, Hugo's sleepy voice calls, "Oh, for fuck's sake, stop having midnight conversations!"

Lowering my voice into a deep, susurrus whisper, "Raffe. Talk. You and I. Now."

Bryon chuckles. "I fear you may have awakened the sleeping giant, my _friend_." He pats Raffe on the shoulder, but there's no friendliness in the gesture – he might as well have pounded Raffe. Temper flaring once more, I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Bryon, be rude again, and I will not blame Raffe if he rips you open. In fact, he'll have all rights."

Bryon smirks at me. He seems amused by the concept of Raffe ripping him open more than anything. With a cheeky roll of his eyes, he sighs and starts back towards the camp, flame bobbing with each stride. "Right. I'll leave you two to it." He turns back slightly to wave, meeting my gaze with intensely complex emotions hidden in his eyes, the movement sending ripples of golden light over his brown cloak. "Good luck."

I watch him leave for as long as possible, almost certain that, if Raffe should get out of hand, I can count on him being on my side in a moment's notice. Despite his childlike dispute, my respect for my uncle remains.

With dragging reluctance, I turn back to face Raffe's fuming emotions. He is plunged in darkness – there is not even a watery gleam for me to discern where his eyes are. It seems vision is on his side this round. Squinting at the darkness, I peer in the direction of the low, rumbling growl thundering deep in Raffe's chest.

"Would you," he booms in a clenched tone, "like to explain to me what was going on? What was so big of his that I couldn't see?"

My eyes fly towards the general direction of the floor. "Can't tell you. Sorry."

"Oh?" Ice seals over his tone, sharpening it into a crystalline blade. "Why? Because he won't allow you to?"

"No," I lie. "Because, when I do tell you, it's got to be the right moment. And now's not that time."

"What the hell could you possibly have to tell me that has to… to… wait for some sort of stage cue?" Raffe hisses in frustration. "Do you even realize how much this troubles me? How on edge I am?"

"I've noticed your edginess," I confess, glaring at him fierily. "But I've just been accrediting it to the fact that you don't trust anyone, Han Solo."

"It's because of them." Raffe's voice drops into lower tones, as if he doesn't want any sensitive ears catching the splintered fragments of his speech. "Penryn, I know you're at peace here, but there is something about this situation that doesn't seem quite right. I do not trust any of them. Their claims at generosity are too much of a miracle. And I do not like staying here." I can almost feel Raffe glance in the direction of the dimmed embers, the way he rubs at the back of his neck palpable in the air. "I do not like it at all."

My heart is strained. All my being wishes to help console Raffe's nervousness and soothe his soul, but the acute points of logic and love in Bryon's side of the challenge tip the scales. Evading the subject of choosing, I ask, "Why? What's bothering you, specifically?" Awkwardly, I fumble in the darkness until I find the arm sculpted with sinew and muscle lying in its embrace. I hold what I believe is his forearm and attempt to direct my gaze where his eyes may or may not be. "We can try to fix it."

Raffe sighs. His anger seems to seep from him, every word lowering in strain until he only speaks with anxiety. "There are many things which are to discuss. The way Hugo claimed he carried no angel swords on him, but I saw them before, carried them on my back as we fled the cherubs. They whispered to me, but none of it made any sense – they spoke in gibberish. Bryon – he is too young to lead, his face unhardened as a leader's shouldn't be, but he preaches like an old man in a chapel. His ominous plans are really causing sleepless nights. He's just made it pretty clear he despises me with fervent passion. I'm not sure I want to go wherever he's leading me to get my wings stitched back on."

"Alright." I massage my thumb over his smooth skin in soothing circles. "So, if we were to separate from Bryon and Hugo the moment we left this temple or whatnot, what's your plan?"

Tactical logic enters Raffe's voice. "For my wings? I'd go to the she-aerie. There's one, a bit far from here, but we should be able to make it. I'd get one of the surgeons there to –"

"You're going to get another she-angel to do your wings?" Disbelief colors my tone, raising my volume slightly. "That did not work out for you so well last time. And isn't that Ariel archangel pissed at you?"

"True." Reluctantly, Raffe sighs. "I don't see how I could go about it any other way, though. In order to earn the Messenger status, I'd have to win the votes of the she-angels as well. They might be able to vote on that, if not, when I get my wings back, I'll make sure they can. If I sweet-talk Ariel into a feminist agreement, I'm almost positive we can work something out."

"It's not a bad plan." I tilt my head to one side, still searching for his eyes. "But what about Paige?"

Raffe falls silent.

"And what about our lack of supplies?"

Still, he says nothing.

Struggling to keep my tone professional, I sigh levelly. "I don't really know about this, Raffe. Maybe we should at least hear out what Bryon has to offer."

"So we have to improvise a bit, isn't that what we've done so far?" Raffe coaxes. "We've wasted too much time with them. This cavern lasts forever. I'm not sure if my men have forever."

"And I'm not sure that I want to drag my sister back into an angel stronghold," I argue back, stationing my defensives.

"There are many kind… and… fluffy angels at the she-aerie. They are not half the warriors that the males are, much more –"

"You know," I hum, irritated by the sexist note in his conversation, "I can see why they like rebelling so much. A female is always better than an angel, no matter what the species."

His immense surprise is slightly amusing. "You know about the she angel's rebellion?"

I nod knowledgeably, squaring my shoulders importantly. "Bryon told me. It was what, we were, y'know, talking about before you came here." I scratch at my neck.

"Hmm." Raffe doesn't sound convinced. "My point is, Penryn, that this is a dog-eat-dog world. It doesn't make a speck of sense for them to just drop everything and assist us because your sister has puppy dog eyes. They've got to have ulterior motives."

"Yeah, probably." I smirk. "Hugo's probably going to want a few secrets in return for his services, and Bryon a few stories. Maybe some metal parts for Ogden, and a big chew toy for Scruffy."

"Penryn, please be serious."

"I am completely serious." I harden myself against any of Raffe's pleas, turning my heart to stone and will to iron. "I'm not going to go along with you on this plan of yours, not quite yet. I'm going to follow Bryon and see what he can offer me before I make an official decision, at least judging the strategy in his approach of the problem. I want to see all the cards before picking a hand. If Lucius is really the only way to go about this" – I swallow, eyes downcast – "then I'll go smart-mouth that demon. And if going to the she-aerie is the only way to get your wings back" – once more, my eyes grope through the darkness for his gaze – "then I'll follow through with whatever we have to do. That's my logic. Okay?"

"Penryn…" Desperation claws at his tone. True emotion shines through. "Can't we just leave them behind? Get back to the road, you, your sister, and I?"

My heart clenches. Slowly, I draw away, releasing his hand. "I'm sorry, Raffe, but I've got to think about family first. And Bryon's got a way to help my sister. He may have a way to help you out, too, that doesn't jeopardize your wings and lead us on another adventure."

Raffe's silence stretches beyond my comfort zone. Grabbing at my own forearm as a poor substitute for his, eyes roaming the darkness awkwardly. For all I know, he could've crept off into the darkness to think, leaving me alone by the paintings.

Tentatively, reaching one hand out cautiously into the darkness, I whisper his name. The abyss of shadows whispers back, until Raffe banishes it with the thrum of his voice.

"I'm still here," he murmurs quietly, his position not having moved an inch from where it was last. "I think you're making a mistake, a mistake that will burn both our asses, but I'm still here."

Those three words bring surprising amounts of comfort to me in the dark confines of the Temple. My shoulders unclench. Sighing softly, I smile at my feet. "Good. I don't like fighting."

"Can't say I'm fond of butting heads with your bullish tenacity," Raffe grunts. "You're like a big bulldog, you know that?"

"I am not!" I cry defensively, unsure of where to direct my daggered glare.

"Of course you are. You even breathe like one." Raffe's crackly imitation of wet, slobbery panting is far from what a dog really sounds like. It echoes petulantly off the stone, filling the chamber. "See? That's what you sound like."

I sniff disdainfully in his general direction, turning on heel and heading back towards the campfire. "I can't believe you think I sound like a dog," I call over my shoulder.

Raffe's voice is directly next to me, keeping pace with each footstep of mine. "Look, you even walk by my side, like a little puppy."

"_You_ are so following _me_ right now," I accuse, glaring from where his voice had originated from. "Don't even try to deny it, kitty-cat."

"Kitty-cat?" Raffe thunders from the dark.

"Yeah." I smirk smugly. "Really finicky, adored by the internet, fascinated with common objects like laser pointers, and cranky when woken up from sleep."

"You think I am fascinated with _laser pointers_?" Raffe chuckles tightly from the back of his throat. It's as if I can feel him bristling from the insult by my side.

"What's the problem, tiger?" I cast a snide glance his direction. "Cat got your tongue?"

"You are so not funny right now, it's hilarious." Raffe's voice is more a growl than a mew, but it's humorous all the same. "The fact that you think you're funny is even more amusing. Wipe that smirk off your face, you really are just a drooling mutt tossing a ball to itself."

"It's not my fault that you're a stick in the mud." Smiling broader, I start to swing my feet with each stride, putting my hands in my pockets. "Lighten up, tiger. Have some fun." I hesitate, choosing my next words clumsily, without an inkling of finesse. "Here's the part where I'd poke you in the ribs or something. But I actually don't know where you are."

At this, the ghost of a laugh leaves Raffe's lips, the melodious chord prickling my skin with unexpected pleasure. "Good thing, too. You're a hard poker."

"Stop flirting and shut up!" Hugo bellows.

Yipping once with excitement at his master's voice, Scruffy pounces on Hugo's slumbering form, the wolf's squirming attempts to wiggle beneath Hugo's blankets illuminated by the fire's dying shadow.

* * *

**Well. That was that. **

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**~wolfluvermh**


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

_The she-angel stumbles forward, deeper into the heart of the crumbling city. Her reddish brown wings tremble, as if she can detect something in the air – as a matter of fact, so can I. There is a presence surrounding the area, an aura so powerful it can reach into my dreams and still inspire the tremor of fearful respect. It is almost as if a god's breath muffles the area, their very soul draping it in mystery and power._

_Her surroundings are regally depressing and carry the bearings of former glory – white and silver marble carved into collapsed houses and temples, pillars shaped like pencils still soaring to the sky, their pointed edges dulling slightly with each new breeze to whip through the chilly place. Even the floor she so cautiously treads upon is riddled with ominous cracks, not nearly as deep as the broad canyons and narrow crevices so large that mist shields the very bottoms of their pits from sight, but still dangerous if one were to catch a foot in the snare of cracks. Overhead, the ceiling is rocky and patchy, as if the cave this desolate city is hidden in has been compromised – perhaps it is a Chaza, a Nephilim Temple, one abandoned much before ours. Whatever the case, frosty white sunlight shafts from multiple holes in the ceiling, providing atmospheric lighting. _

_Audiat's particular location is on the main road, like the one we travel. Two cracks in the skin of the earth run on either side, wide enough that it puts the Colorado River to shame, probably deeper than any of the other cracks. The peninsula she cautiously approaches the edge of only grows riskier and riskier as she draws nearer to the point of the triangle, the ridges and crevasses crisscrossing the stone becoming increasingly unstable. More and more pebbles rattle off the edges, bounding off the sides of the massive canyons. _

_Despite the obvious fear in her eyes and the lack of weapons on her person, Audiat continues, treading lightly down the center of the path. As the presence's weight seems to increase to me, I can only imagine what she might be feeling at this moment. _

_The little angel's bravery astounds me – she plods onward, hopping over rocks and sliding beneath toppled pillars without stirring her feathers once. With head held high, she approaches the edge of the peninsula. _

_At the very tip of the triangular stone section, an out-of-place green bush grows, the only color besides Audiat herself in the austere landscape. A stream with crystalline waters encircles the bush, constantly moving in a circle despite the lack of gravity's sense. On the far side of where the two canyons connect, a mighty churchlike construction stands, with brilliant crumbled pillars and collapsed statues. It is closer than the other opposite banks had been, but still, very far. _

_Audiat truly begins to shake as she approaches the bush. Her feet slide over the rubble. Dropping into a crouch, she struggles to continue walking, as if the bush is warding her off, keeping her away. The presence's weight on my soul grows with every step she takes in the direction of the bush. Upon reaching the outskirts of the circular stream, she collapses to her knees, bowing before the bush. _

_"Please." Voice like a fragile swallow in the storm, Audiat lifts her head to allow a slight increase in volume. "Please, Great One. I have heard so much about you, about your teachings – wisdom, they say, forms your armor, and instead of flesh and blood, they poured gold into the mold of your heart. I know you have heard so much from other passengers and ignored them. Why should you not shake the ants from your hide? But please, please help me. The need is dire. I need your help."_

_The room shakes. Cascades of dust fall from the ceiling. But before Audiat or I can fully get a grip on the situation, the quivering stops, put at rest once more. Swallowing, her breaths as shuddery as my heart's pulse, Audiat calls out once more, "Please! It isn't just I who requires your judgment! I speak on behalf of the she-angels! On behalf of the humans! On behalf of the beasts!"_

_At this, the room quivers a little longer. It almost seems this time as if something is crawling from the depths of the canyons, claws rocking the mountain with each step it takes forward. _

_"I need your guidance," Audiat continues, her voice choking. "Not just on professional matters, but on personal. The beasts – they are led by you, they say, but I only ever see them following that man with his billowing cloak. He's vanished. His wisdom has failed us. I do not know what to do. If trouble has fallen upon him, I am never to forgive myself."_

_A curious hiss sounds from the depths, echoing mightily. It rebounds off the stone and distorts the noise until the entire room is hissing at Audiat. _

_"I was the one who struck out," Audiat explains, regret sharp on her tongue. "He was being a good leader. Trying to stick by his people. He let himself get captured by the he-angels, allowed himself to be shackled and carted off like a mad dog so his people could get away in time. And I disapproved of that. I said some things I'd rather not tell. He's gone missing, and I'm afraid that something terrible will happen to him. Please, Dragon, help me."_

_Responding to the little angel's pleas, the beast rises from the gloom. _

_All I see is the long coil of neck, thick and sinuous. From the mist it comes, rising to an impressive height. Tendrils of fog hug the rough scales. Muscular shoulders are half-shrouded by the pit's mist. Slitted eyes peel open, bright and chatoyant in the dim white light. Beautiful horns curl from the back of its head, the grooves imprinted into the horns almost making it seem like it was carved from a tree. Starting between its horns, long, thin bristles with broad sides cascade down its nape, almost like a small mane. Its scales seem to be have been all forged from tiger's eye, gleaming mystically, bronze and gold and brown all overlapping one another in an impenetrable armor. I should fear the long muzzle and the ivory teeth that undoubtedly lay underneath the dragon's lips, should fear the flare of its broad nostrils as they taste the air. But those broad, expressive eyes and their grandiose bronze pupils seem to excuse all of its brutality. _

_I cannot think of this beast, with its display of both elegance and strength, as anything other than beautiful. _

_Of course, I could probably span out over its eyeball and not even reach from lid to lid. Even Bryon, with his unnatural height, couldn't even span from lid to lid. The dragon is massive, and it could snap Audiat up on the slightest whim. _

_Lowering its brilliant head until it's level with Audiat, the dragon breathes out through its nose, as if it is inquiring her what she may want. _

_Audiat's eyes are blown wide with stunned awe. Her expression isn't even slightly controlled, the amazement keeping her mouth open and her hands limp by her sides. At last, she whispers, "You're so much more beautiful than the legends describe you to be, King. Magnificence seems to have been woven into your entire being."_

_The dragon tilts its head to one side, but otherwise, does not respond to her compliment. A question gleams in its eyes, goading her to describe her troubles. _

_"We are on the brink of war." Audiat swallows, looking at her hands. "The he-angels are – they're rallying, slamming their swords to their shields and such. Their forces are much superior to ours. They have the sky, and much of our neighboring territories. The continent for which we brawl over is far from here, over a sea. The only reason I came here was to recruit help, and we need it dearly. We have the humans, but we know not how they can be of use to us. True, their brains are clever little things, but they have lived in fear of the he-angels too long. From this continent, though, I equipped the beasts. But now, they are in disarray – their leader scattered them for their own protection, which is cunning, of course. However, they are reluctant to crawl from their holes without his guidance."_

_The dragon chuckles. It starts out a slow, quavering growling, gradually gaining rhythm and volume. He tosses his head up, shaking the cavern and baring his teeth to the sky to allow his laughter to escape. Gasping, Audiat shoots to her feet in recognition of the laughter. I, too, know that melodious chortle. _

_"Do you think I have abandoned you?" thrums Bryon's voice, as he lowers his head back level to Audiat's. His voice is somehow even more glorious, chords of beauty with each word he breathes. Chuckling in amusement once more, Bryon inches slightly closer to her ledge. _

_"Bryon?" Audiat's voice squeaks. "Bryon? You're… you're the dragon on the mountain...?"_

_A piercing shriek fills the air as Bryon lifts his head and shakes his neck like a horse may flick its mane, causing the bronze scales to rattle against each other. The white sunlight dances like moonbeams between his two horns, shafts of light dappling over Audiat's awed face. _

_"But…" Audiat is at loss, staring up at Bryon with confusion. "The dragon has been known to overshadow that little mountain town at the foot of the hills for centuries, overseeing them and warding off evil and things like that. They say that he's the wisest creature to have ever walked the earth. I thought… I thought that…" Disappointment hardens her voice. "I thought the dragon could help me. I thought it was true, everything."_

_Bryon bristles, the long metallic strands on the top of his neck pricking. "Who says that I am not the dragon of which you have heard in legend and lore?" The cavern shakes, as if he's lashing a tail somewhere down in the depths of the caves. "Who says that I have not slumbered here for centuries, imparting knowledge on those who pass? I am the dragon you have heard of, Audiat. I do not deserve many things the locals give me, I but my reputation is one thing they haven't strayed far on. I am wise. I will help you."_

_"When was this going to come up in conversation?" she whispers, staggering forward towards him in utter amazement. "Certainly not before I had to dig up all that research and speak to creepy natives. Of course not. Because that would be stupid."_

_"The less my allies know about me," Bryon answers, deeper voice somehow sexy despite his alien appearance, "the more I can hide from the he-angels, namely Raphael." His nose begins to slightly reach for her, perhaps to catch her scent, perhaps reaching for a stroke. _

_"I understand the points from which you are coming from," Audiat acknowledges, "but why namely Raphael?"_

_Bryon chuckles darkly, turning his eyes to the sky, as if one might be listening. "Raphael has not a clue of what I am capable of. I do not wish for him to awaken my dark side, out of mutual wellbeing."_

_Upon the last word of his speech, the bush before him bursts into flickering orange flames, all by itself __– the strangest thing, however, is that, although the bush burns and fire laps at the wood, the green leaves do not crinkle or wither beneath the blaze._

Something new happens. With a feeling like my gut is being barraged with razors and my head assaulted with laughing gas, I find my dream has a new focus.

_"Simon," Raffe questions while straightening an article of his bizarre clothing, tightening the band around his neck while staring into a mirror, "what is most powerful to you?"_

_Bryon comes into focus, holding something in one hand behind Raffe, as if he's waiting on the archangel. A manservant, I realize. In response to Raffe's question, Bryon blinks twice. "Sir, I am not sure by what you mean by that."_

_Raffe sighs heavily, pivoting in the mirror. "It was not that difficult a question, Simon. I mean, what is the most powerful force in the world? The most powerful emotion, whatnot. The most powerful… element."_

_"Well, sir," Bryon answers thoughtfully, "I think that love is the most powerful thing in any world."_

_"Love?" Raffe's voice is delightedly amused, as if such an answer is humorous and innocent to him. "That's strange to hear from you, Simon. I would've answered hate, but I'm intrigued. Why is love such a powerful force?"_

_Bryon broods for a second before answering. "Because love is the most powerful force. From it springs happiness and joy, a feeling like you truly belong someplace. From love can come life itself, the little infant's bawl. Partners united by love are inseparable, and love that is true in every regard is to be feared indeed."_

_"Feared?" Raffe's voice is still delighted. "Do exaggerate!"_

_Bryon's gaze is filled with emotions I'm not sure I've quite comes to terms with in him. Shame. Anger. Hate. "Love is terrible in the same regard that it is beautiful, sir. Everything else comes from love, not just beauty. Every dark thought in the world can overwhelm you when you're in love. The wrath of love is the one thing I fear. It's dangerous to be in love – dangerous for those around you. Love may be the opposite of hate, sir, but it is also its irascible mother."_

_Raffe is silent for a very long time, adjusting his collar and odd sleeves in the mirror. "Wrath of love." He smirks colorlessly. "I am Wrath of God. And you know something, Simon?"_

_"No, sir."_

_"Neither of us said that God is the most powerful force in the world." Turning to leave, he claps Bryon once on the shoulder, not even glancing at his face. "Whether it's love or hate, we'll have to see, won't we?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

This time, the switch of dreams seems more natural, gentler, as if instead of a raging torrent, I am tossed down the swift waters of a small creek.

_Bryon chuckles bitterly. He leans on his staff, watching the stars with raw pain in his eyes. His smile quivers, then drops completely. "You are wrong to trust me so completely. You know not what I am. You know not what I have done."_

_"I know that you're a Nephilim." With sparkling eyes, Audiat steps beside him, mimicking his pose, leaning on the balcony instead of a staff. "I know that you've hurt people. But I know that you won't anymore. You've changed."_

_Agony enters Bryon's eyes as he meets her openly expressive gaze. "I am a monster." Shame forces him to glance back down at the ground. "I have done more horrible things than I dare say."_

_"That was the past." Cautiously, Audiat lifts a hand, laying it on the left side of his chest, right over his heart. Through her, I can almost sense the glorious thudding of his lively heart. "I know you, Bryon. You've trusted me even when Ariel thought I was crazy, about that whole white wolf issue. You're a good man, with good morals and a good sense of right and wrong. That's all that matter to me. I don't care what Gabriel says, I don't care what Raphael says. Heck, I don't even care what the world says about people like you. I just know that you are a good man. The best man, perhaps. And nothing you've ever done or ever will do will change my opinion of you."_

_Bryon's eyes melt at her words, and, immediately, I feel as though I'm seeing something I wasn't meant to see. He, too, reaches out and brushes his fingers against her heart. There is nothing steamy in the moment, of course, but the tenderness in which he regards her feels private. _

_"You may be the only one to ever think that," Bryon whispers, voice thick with emotion. _

_"So be it. It simply means I know you better than anyone else." She looks up at the sky, memorizing the speckling stars. "Just between you and me, Bryon, I think that it's the ones that hunt you that are the monsters. I think you're just the good man caught in the crossfires."_

Again, I am thrown into the jumble of dreams, emerging in the same place I had before with its white walls riddled with grey cracks and the fog creeping up from the broad pits. This time, though, instead of Audiat, Bryon is stumbling, crippled, blood leaving a crimson tail in his wake, and Raffe is behind him, approaching with Pooky Bear in hand and wings raised.

_Bryon is wheezing, his panting having a strange, reptilian rasp to them. He's doubled over, hiding from Raffe, as if he's afraid to show what's happening to him. The cloak pools around his legs, somehow spotless despite the battered quality of the rest of his clothes. The pain in each hobbling stride tightens my heart. _

_Raffe is directly behind him, walking forward with steady, threatening strides. His facial expression does not quiver, his hands do not readjust around Pooky Bear's hilt. His snowy white wings are held pricked, not bobbing with his pace, but still and baleful. Wrath of God. _

_They're almost to the bush – Bryon's staggering towards it steadfastly as he can, as if it is his only chance at life. But progress is slow, and Raffe's advance is as steady as the beat of a drum. It comes to the point where Bryon is casting glances over his shoulder, boding him off with palms spread behind his back. _

_With a wet cough, Bryon stumbles uncoordinatedly, bracing himself against the crumbled foot of a pillar. Squinting against the white light, Bryon stares back at Raffe, imploring expression glazed anguish. _

_"You don't understand," Bryon hacks, huddling into himself once more. The pain carried on each note of his voice strains the words, turning each into a thick, raspy gasp. "It's coming. Stop, stop it!"_

_Raffe's stride does not falter – his wings, though, do perk slightly higher, held like a pair of sickles to the pale grey sky. He approaches, black garbs a shock against the pastel surroundings. His frozen expression, contorted revoltingly by rage and hatred, doesn't so much as quaver. _

_Bryon staggers closer to the bush, groping the stones with fingers missing nails, clawing at the floor with rabid desperation. His attempt to escape is strange to me – there is a puzzle piece astray, something I do not quite understand in the situation before me. Raffe is a predator, cornering his prey against sheer cliffs; but Bryon frantically plods towards his trap, and his demeanor is not that of the wounded animal. _

_"No." Bryon cuts off with a breathy gasp, reeling, sucking air into his lungs. For the first time, I notice the gaping wound in his belly as he cranes for air. "Leave! You're… it's coming!" The deepest pang of shock hits me as a tear traces down Bryon's cheek, smacking against the stone floor. "Leave me alone!"_

_"Why?" Raffe's voice is brutal as two knives scraping against each other. "So you can return and kill hundreds of people?"_

_"No." Bryon's voice cracks, and, to stem more tears, he squeezes his eyes shut. "So I won't kill thousands. Go! Please!"_

_Raffe doesn't respond with more than a slight clenching of the jaw. _

_Collapsing on the riparian stones, Bryon's panting grows increasingly ragged as one of his hands sinks to the bottom of the circular stream protecting the bush, staining the placid waters red. It decreases into panicked gasps as he collapses by the bank, lifting his hand from the stream. Holding both up with shaking breaths and trembling limbs, he stares in horror as before our eyes they gnarl, skin sharpening into ridges and scales, fingernails thickening into curling black claws. His repeated blinking draws attention to the slitted pupils replacing the round ones. _

_"It's starting!" he wails, throwing his gnarled hands over his head, clasping at his temples. Between his lips, his teeth seem to lengthen with each pant. Crawling on all fours, he staggers ever closer to the bush. "Lord, dear Lord, save me. Do not let it win, do not let it –"_

_Raffe grabs Bryon by his cloak's neck, dragging the cloak off of him and tossing it elsewhere. Though the cloak is unharmed, it lands on the bush, draping over the scruffy splay of limbs with choppy disorganization. Without his cloak, some other ghastly features of Bryon's are revealed. Long, flat, and scaly hairs emerge from his nape, each a like bronze-tinted mirror. His ragged shirt reveals the beginnings of his refined chest breaking into belly scales. I'm willing to bet that the bulge at the rear of his pants is the beginning of a tail. _

_Before Bryon can reach his bush, Raffe seizes him by the front of the shirt and lifts his above the ground. The frayed fabric does not rip, holding sound. With glazed eyes, Bryon focuses his attention on Raffe as Raffe walks him steadily over to the edge of the cliff. _

_I want to shout. I want to scream. I know that Raffe is no match for a dragon of such size, a dragon that is only refrained by the fragile skin of Bryon. _

_"You don't understand," Bryon nearly sobs as Raffe hefts him over the cliff. "You don't understand. It's coming. I can't control it, Raphael. I can't. Let me go, and I can stop it. I can dam the flood. Please, please, please" – Bryon starts clawing desperately at Raffe's hands – "set me down on the ground before you piss it off any more. Don't let me hurt anyone."_

_"You can't hurt anyone ever again if you're dead." Raffe's voice is neutral, indifferent to the struggles of the filth before him. "Don't try to barter with me, monster."_

_"I'm not a monster." With pleading eyes, Bryon tries to grasp at Raffe's hands. "I'm not. Let me try to prove that to you. I'm not a monster. I'm not!"_

_Raffe laughs with bone-chilling cruelty. "You are, little demon. You are. You see, there's nothing you can do about the bare essentials. I will always be the Wrath of God. And you will always be the monster I hunt."_

_"It doesn't have to be that way." Bryon's eyes soften with pity, despite the fact that he's the one hanging over the cliff. "Raphael, you can change, just like I did."_

_"There's only one problem with your cute little theory." Raffe's eyes harden, his hand growing tauter with pre-release stress. The hand bracing Pooky Bear coils into a better striking position. "You have not changed in the slightest. No matter how much you may try to run from that truth, you can't. And now, you're at the end of the line. So, may my last words to you be this." Raffe's voice drops to a whisper, and, with one simple motion, he stabs Bryon through the chest. "You always will be a monster."_

_Flicking the gurgling Bryon away from him like a man may toss garbage into the can, Raffe turns his back. Bryon makes no noise as he plummets, something that truly frightens me – I know Bryon, I know he survived. I am utterly sure that, whatever Bryon was trying to keep deep in his gut, isn't going to be happy about being thrown into a cliff. _

_Raffe shows no regard to anything until, abruptly, the bush Bryon had so desperately been crawling towards randomly bursts into flame. _

_His blue eyes reflect the blaze of the sudden inferno. With a sensation like a slap to the face, the presence I had felt earlier, in an earlier dream, slams into me again, this time with the anger of a million lives. Its scalding heat reaches from one reality and into mine. Raffe scrambles backwards, away from the flame, casting out one hand to bode it off. _

_The burning bush. _

_From the depths of the pit, a roar echoes off the stone, filled with rage. From my vantage point, I can see the cloak as it flutters down the gorge, returning to a fallen master. _

_Raffe goes white. The presence seems to terrify him – the sight of him so rattled is alarming especially to me. It prompts the question of just how powerful the flames and the presence are. Hastily shoving Pooky Bear into a scabbard, Raffe takes to the air, flapping off in brisk sweeps of his beautiful wings. The black and billowing smoke of the burning bush stains a few white feathers grey, and the tongues of the flame leap after him, rearing on their hind legs and snapping their jaws at his heels. _

_Raffe sighs as soon as he is in the air, leaving a snow-capped mountain behind him. I, myself, release some of the strain on my heart as the flame's red glare disappears in the blankets of white, left behind to burn emptily at the stone chamber. Wistful appreciation fills my heart as I watch Raffe relax the beats of his wings, as I watch him begin to gracefully swoop and dive through the air. The little mountain city at the base of the hills screams as he passes overhead, but even that is reassuring, a sign that he is leaving Bryon's "dark side" behind. _

_Perhaps, though, he isn't. _

_A belligerent roar echoes over the valley and the sole wintry mountain among all the green hills. The top of the mountain collapses and crumbles, drawing more screams from below. Raffe pivots in the air to stare with horrified awe in his eyes as a bronze dragon explodes from the mountaintop, sending avalanches down and boulders toppling. The mountaintop shatters as the dragon pulls his body through the debris, the fragile structure that'd been riddled with cracks and nearly pounded to dust breaking into rubble at the dragon's prompting, crushed beneath his mighty weight. He gleams like a copper penny among the whiteness, his roar so tremendous it instills fear in I, the invincible overseer. Tail wrapping around the mountain like the dressing to a wound, Bryon's searchlight eyes land on Raffe, the faint wink of bronze visible from such a distance._

_The exquisite beauty is that of a predator as the dragon climbs from the depths of the mountain, each muscle terribly beautiful. The hunter's instinct flares its nose, pricks the hairlike scales along the nape of its neck. Superiority seems to have built the creature and all its grandeur glamour as it roars a challenge at Raffe, the triumphant bellow echoing off every hill of the valley, heard for thousands of miles around. _

_In this moment, I realize that the tides have changed. _

_Raffe is hunted. _

_Bryon is the hunter. _

_And I realize in the moment after that Bryon is every bit as merciless as Raffe._

* * *

Scruffy's huffing nose grazing over my forehead, over my sealed eyelids, and down my temple to my cheek stirs me from my deep sleep – his tongue caressing my nose and sculpting into the concaves of my face. Flicking my eyes open, I start to stir – only paused by Hugo's desperate face as he slams one finger to his lips repeatedly, expression intense.

Scruffy retreats from me, padding silently back into the shadows. Hugo is crouched on the opposite side of Raffe, exigently urging me silently to keep still and quiet. In one hand, he clutches a can of shaving cream. My mouth opens upon realization of what the boy's probably trying to do.

Raffe is still slumbering without an inkling of grace – you'd have thought that an angel would be remarkably poised and balanced in sleep, but the case is not so with Raffe. Somehow, Hugo's scuffling around does not wake him either.

Crawling like a cat, Hugo scurries around until he's behind me. Raffe's arms are wrapped me, cradling my body to his as if I'm his blanket against the cold tunnels. His hands, however, are slack behind my back. The hiss of the can rasps behind my back, and I can almost feel one of those hands filling with shaving cream.

Moving back into my field of vision, Hugo smirks, hushing me once more, gesturing me to be perfectly still. Then, patting Scruffy on the shoulder, I watch as his oh-so-original prank take wing.

Scruffy starts sniffing at Raffe's face, not licking him, merely allowing the tips of those irritating whiskers skating over his cheeks and up his nose. Sure enough, Raffe starts to stir, groaning from the pit of his throat. A candid mixture of dread and apprehension chokes up my throat as Raffe's arm stirs, lifting from its placement wrapping around my torso.

It lifts to his face. The moment is tense.

Groaning, Raffe shoves Scruffy's nose away from his face, slamming the shaving cream unknowingly onto the wolf's snout.

Scruffy starts to sneeze and cough, snorting cream from his nose. With a soft noise of sleepy confusion and a furrowed brow, Raffe blinks the sleep from his eyes and stares at his hand. Bryon's reverberating laughter booms in the darkness after the moment of awed silence. It seems to rock the chamber. Paige seems slightly confused as to what's going on; she smiles and glances around with hopeful eyes, but she didn't seem to fully comprehend what'd happened in the first place. Ogden hoots like a retarded owl, clapping with childish glee.

I join in the laughter fest with an undignified snicker as Raffe flicks his hand to shake off the clumps of cream sticking to his flesh and a speck of it lands on his eyelashes, and another lands on my forehead.

"Well, that went horribly wrong," Hugo howls, "but it was funny. Definitely uploading that to YouTube. Bryon, can I have the camera?"

Bryon tosses it in an underhanded pass, one Hugo catches flawlessly. Chuckling devilishly, he views the film, blasting the volume at my awakening purr and laughing along as Scruffy starts to sneeze. At the replay, Scruffy snorts indignantly, bristling proudly despite the raspy huffs the audio makes.

While it plays, I push away from Raffe, rising from his embrace. Rubbing the shaving cream from my forehead and flicking it somewhere into the distance, I stand shakily, walking stiff-leggedly over to Bryon.

"You knew about that?" I question, studying his face.

Bryon shrugs apologetically, rubbing massaging circles onto Paige's back. "My apologies, but yes, yes I did. You can't just put a cap on Hugo, though. You've got to let him get his energy out in innocent ways if at all possible."

"Innocent?" I chuckle as Raffe rises from the nest, blinking with his white-fringed eyelashes obliviously. "If somebody doesn't get that, he'll be walking around for the rest of the day with shaving cream on his lashes."

Raffe's face wrinkles with confusion. Cracking his neck, he strides over, flexing his wings to return feeling to them. "What are you two cooking up?" Glancing questionably at me then at Bryon, he curls his lip. "More diabolical shaving cream plans? Because I'll foil them every time."

With an odd sense of merriment lifting my attitude, I laugh, striding right up to him. Standing on my toes to reach his face, I rectify, "No, actually, we'd never be that obvious – I'm just scheming about how I'll get that shaving cream off your face." As my fingers reach up to remove the foam, Raffe blinks rapidly and flinches away. "Oh, please, Raffe, hold still; you look ridiculous. Let me fix it."

Obediently, Raffe stills, hardening into a pastiche sculpture of a Greek god in a modern man's garb and the wings of a Christian monster. Plucking at the ends of his lashes as tenderly as possible, the pads of my fingers barely brushing the slender hairs, I pull the clot to the fringes of the eyelashes and then flick it away. It flies into the darkness somewhere, perhaps landing near my own shaving cream clump.

"That, my friends, is a sighting of a moiety." Bryon nudges at Hugo with his elbow, smiling at me. "Take a good long look, they're pretty darn rare."

Hugo's annoyance dictates his previous glee. "How many times do we have to go over the fact that I am not a walking, talking dictionary? What the hell is a mo – uh, a mo-mo?"

"Moiety?" Bryon sighs in enervation. "You know, for Christmas, you're getting a good old-fashioned dictionary, that way, you _can_ walk and talk like one."

"For Christmas," Hugo counters with a cocked brow, "you're getting a Tumblr whether you like it or not. Let's see how long your sanity lasts with hastag-feels."

* * *

**Basically, the entire chapter was muddling. More background, more dark-side secrets, and a burning bush. **

**POLL: The foundations of Raffe's and Bryon's initial hate for one another are founded in this chapter. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

Abruptly in the overall silence of the darkened tunnel, Hugo howls with joy. He'd been able to pick up the barest trace of Wi-Fi as we near the surface, and since the moment he'd received the signal, he'd been gleefully surfing the web, squealing occasionally when he spots a particular fan-art or fanfiction that pleases him.

Prompted more by boredom than interest, I drift up to Hugo, walking alongside Scruffy's long strides. The wolf greets me with a playful lap up the side of my face, panting cheerfully at my arrival. Meeting Scruffy's mischievous grin with a smile of my own, I stroke his shoulder.

"Penryn," Hugo gushes, noticing that I'd wandered his direction, "you've got to look at this one. I mean, like, seriously, this one, it's worth it. Even better than the Scruffy and Jane fanimation, I swear."

Sighing somberly, I glance at the screen of his computer. "Alright. Lemme see. Scoot over." Awkwardly, I swing up onto Scruffy's back – the wolf does not falter with my additional weight, but he slows to allow me better passage. Hugo allows me to squirm between him and the computer, safely wedged between his legs should I lose my balance.

His lean arms wrap around me to tap away at the computer touchpad, but the arrangement isn't awkward. I might as well be hanging around one of my guy friends with the air of nonchalance, indifference from even Raffe and Bryon as they plod on opposite sides of Scruffy. Bryon doesn't even seem to register the contact, talking softly to Paige and laughing at whatever she may say. Raffe glances once at Hugo, rolls his eyes at Scruffy's lolling tongue, and continues studying the darkness for something threatening.

"Okay, so, here's the original, right?" Hugo murmurs, excitement molding his attitude. On the screen, a long Tumblr post is seen of little chibi-like doodles is displayed. Patiently, Hugo scrolls through, allowing me to see each of the round, large-eyed people.

In the first box, it's just someone I assume is Bryon standing next to a Seraph with six wings. The Seraph's mouth is open, his cute doodled eyes angry. Revolving around him are the words, "freak", "unloved", "get out of here". In the next frame, Bryon's smile is decreased to a flat line. Next to him is Raffe, except the angel's face is cruel – well, as cruel as a little doodle baby can be. This time, Raffe's saying "monster", "demon", and "go back to hell."

Now, Bryon's officially frowning and looking down at the ground by the time he reaches the next foe, a demon that looks suspiciously like Lucius. Now, it's saying, "you'll never belong", "outcast", "street rat". By the last box, he looks officially depressed, hugging his cloak and staring at his feet with eyes glazed with glassy tears. My heart pulls at the little innocent face. The words around the disappointed female human read, "not a warrior", "stupid cloaks", "no more cloaks", and "take it off".

The next frame is flat out miserable, with dark tinting and a no text, just Bryon sitting in the corner of an empty room with tears running down his face, crying into his arms, pink mouth wailing.

However, things look considerably brighter in the picture, thank the heavens. Adorable sobbing chibi Bryon was a little much for me. This shows a little she-angel with white hair tinted pink and reddish brown wings in the doorway of Bryon's crying room, her mouth splayed in admiration and eyes dotted with awed sparkles. She's saying: "your cloak is so beautiful oh em gee".

Sniffling, tears still pooling in his wide eyes, Bryon looks up at her in the next picture. "you like my cloak?"

With a warming heart, I see the she-angel and Bryon standing side by side, and her goofy overcome-with-happiness expression. This time, the she angel's saying, "I wuf it! I wuf your cloak!"

The next frame has Bryon throwing the cloak over the she-angel's shoulders and her painfully cute excited expression. "here," Bryon is saying, "you can wear my cloak". The silly she-angel's reaction actually forces a laugh out of me. It depicts her running around with crazed jubilance, hands raised to the sky, wings spread wide and eyes almost as large as her black hole of a mouth. The cloak flies behind her as she's caught mid-stride. Large text overwhelms the background. "OMG I WUF THIS CLOAK. OMG CLOAK CLOAK CLOAK CLOAK CLOAK. OMG BRYON LOOK AT YOUR CLOAK. I WUF IT. I WUF YOUR CLOAK."

Bryon's close-up shows him to have a thoughtful face, watching her prance in the background, still with a cloud of capitalized text trailing her. "would you like my staff, too?"

The close-up of the she-angel is perhaps the most adorable yet – she's peeking beneath the cloak as if it's a hood, her eyes round as pools and glassy with stars. Hope spreads her mouth across her face, and her hands clap at her cheeks. "you would do dat? fo' me?"

"here." The following bow is of Bryon handing her the staff. "you can have my staff." Succeeding that frame is only picture of the she-angel in paradise, her having fallen to her knees and lifting the staff above her head, cloak flapping majestically around her.

Bryon's cocking his head next, his eyes warm and his smile radiant. "I think I like you."

The next two frames are quite possibly the sweetest things in the bunch. First, it's the she-angel ramming into Bryon with a hug, causing him an _oof_ of surprise. Then, it's a close-up of her face – a realistic picture, this time, of a realistic angel I recognize with ease. "I love you, Bryon. I love you so much."

The last pair of boxes confuses me, but I feel that it's something that Hugo will explain. Following the hugging picture is a close up of callused hands slipping a golden band onto the slender ring finger of a woman with pale skin. Hovering over the realistic drawing are the words, "I love you, too."

Three dots follow this, and the final image is utterly heartbreaking for reasons I cannot even begin to comprehend. Realistic Bryon is kneeling, staring at his own hands with rivers of tears running down his face again, cloak around his shoulders, staff resting on the ground before him. All of the negative words hover around him in faint print, some standing out more than others. The only color in the picture is the little red feather cradled between his two hands, clutched tenderly, like a frail talisman to keep away the darkness.

"Wait, what happened?" I question, brow scrunching, glancing up at Hugo. "Who's that angel chick?"

"Uh." Hugo glances hintingly at Bryon, whose head had snapped up at the mention of the "angel chick", and then at Raffe, whose ears are undoubtedly leaning in our direction. "Long story for a different time. But, now we've got to see the other version that was just released while we were navigating this fucking labyrinth! It's trending on everything, and it's, quite frankly, just as adorable.

His hands quiver with excitement as he clicks to the next tab.

The exact same style greets me, most likely by the exact same artist. Except, this time, Bryon's the one spitting negative words ("nothing but hate", "devil", "stay away from my family"), issuing them to a strangely heart-melting version of Raffe. My mouth drops as Hugo scrolls excitedly down to the next slide. It looks suspiciously like the pissed Gabriel archangel, with the words "foot-soldier", "stupid", and "mindless warrior" floating around. Glancing between the two frames, it's difficult to see a difference in Raffe – but upon closer examination, his mouth softens to a miniscule degree, and his wings droop a smidgen lower.

Sequentially is an angel that perhaps is Beliel with broad, feathered wings – "fake", he accuses, "murderer", "always second best". Now, Raffe's lip is peeled back over his teeth; he seems to have curled in on himself more slightly, moving into a defensive position, a hand on the hilt of Pooky Bear.

The last frame of accusations is Uriel. His angry sneer is one I am far too-well acquainted with. "not a thinker", Uriel is hissing. "stupid wings", "no more wings", "take them off".

I know what's happening in the picture after that. I'd been there. It's a drawing of heartbroken Chibi Raffe curled up in a ball on the couch he'd been healing on when we first met, staring incomprehensibly at his severed wings with glassy, tear-filled eyes. The forlorn loneliness of the picture brings even more gut-wrenching emotions than Bryon's despair had. With a glance at this picture, I can almost see how much Raffe's world had changed.

The next box quickly vanquishes all mushy feelings.

I appear in that particular box, with a crookedly friendly expression and a braid over my shoulder. The words, "oh em gee your wings are so magnificent" appear beneath my smiling face.

"No way," I mutter in absolute disbelief.

"Aren't you cute?" cackles Hugo, scrolling down more.

Swallowing down disbelief, I struggle to focus on the next frame – Raffe is suspicious, but also curious. "you like my wings?"

My response is somewhat differing from the she-angel's response had been. First, there is me with joy and happiness, grinning and saying, "I wuf your wings!" But then, there's a jagged _crash_ text box cutting the frame in half. The Penryn beneath the crash is suspicious, glancing over her shoulder with sneaky ninja eyes. "They also wuf your wings."

"here," Raffe is shouting as the men pour into the couch room, "you can wear my wings". His angry expression is more cute than fierce, like a little kitten mewing up a challenge. The drawing is so similar to what'd actually occurred that they'd even included that damn shopping cart.

However, my disturbed fascination is quickly sliced in half by my annoyance of the next stupid picture. Chibi-me has the furious eyes and pointy-shark teeth as she rampages over the screen with Raffe's wings held on her back. "GRRRR LOOK AT ME IMMA RAFFE! LOOK AT ME RAFFE! I'M YOU! HEY MICHAEL WATCHA DOIN? GRRRR IMMA RAFFE! GRRRRRRR! GRRRRRR! FEAR ME! GRRRRR!"

In irritation, I jab a finger at the screen. "That is _not_ how it happened."

Hugo laughs mellifluously. "Well, according to the guys you attacked, it is. I spoke to them. We had a nice little chat when I was still tracking down who you were. Don't look at me like that – Obi reported you and the brawny stranger to one of my many ears, and I tracked you down. Raffe is dangerous" – he throws something at Raffe, I'm not sure what, exactly, but it bounces off his head with a sound crack – "and we needed to make sure he hadn't gone dark side. Luckily, though, you're just a Young."

"Just a Young?" Bryon chuckles as Raffe grumbles, "Was it necessary to pelt me with a rock?"

"Oh, screw you two, we're looking at adorable fan-art." Grumbling temperamentally, Hugo scrolls down to the next picture. After an apologetic glance in Raffe's direction, I refocus on the next box.

This time, it's Raffe and I, walking down the highway like we'd done originally. He's glancing at me thoughtfully, with military judgment keen in his eyes. "would you like my sword, too?"

The reflection of Pooky Bear gleams in my large eyes as I stare at the sword. My expression is slightly more devious than the she-angels had been – and I know that it's geared more towards me. I didn't want Raffe's sword to prance around like the she-angel did with Bryon's staff. I wanted it to get my sister back. "you would do dat? fo' me?"

"here. you can have my sword." Now, Raffe and I are walking away from Obi's camp, little Chibi figures all waving their guns in the background, twins prominent among the crowd. My picture is glorious, centered on me lifting his sword to the sky and my majestic roaring expression. In the background, the words, "POOKY BEAR" are stenciled.

As Hugo still scrolls down, my stomach clenches, recalling what had followed the retrieval of the weapon. The tension eases upon seeing the next picture – it's just a close-up of Raffe's layered blue peepers looking in the rear-view mirror at me after I'd gotten into my skimpy crimson dress. The makeup on my face makes me look completely different than all the other doodle drawings – sophisticated, pretty, but almost not like me. The only words are, "you're an okay monkey."

Next is just a blank of me standing in front of the angels at the front gates, spinning around, and Raffe peeking through the window of the van with a hilarious expression.

Hugo squeals with joy as we arrive at the next frame – realistic, capturing Raffe's every contour and line with swipes of the pencil. It's the moment when our foreheads were touching, moments before I kissed him. His eyes are shut, his lips quivering with pain, the hand at my neck furling with agony. My gaze is fixed on him, sympathetic, but with a deeper undertone – as if I feel his pain as my own.

Which hadn't been what happened.

Hadn't it?

The words beneath it only add more muddled emotions to the confusion. "you are the best angel I've met, the best angel by far."

Regardless of my stillness, Hugo scrolls onward, warbling like a sparrow. The next skillfully sketched picture is of Raffe and I fighting Beliel that dreadful night in the angelic Frankenstien lab, utterly familiar, and yet so bizarre, to see lit up on a computer screen. "and you are the best human."

Following the triple dot is Raffe crouched on the ground, just as Bryon had been, staring at his hands, with demonic wings extended to the sky to keep from hooking himself on anything. Swordless, wingless, valueless. The utter devastation, the hopelessness, in his broken gaze might as well rip my heart from my chest. The flare of the aerie exploding still burns behind him, giving me incentive to know exactly when it'd happened.

"Isn't that beautiful?" Hugo blabs, clapping his hands like a frazzled seal. "Just so meaningful! Ah, I love it!"

I remain silent, eyes glued to Raffe's anguish.

"She doesn't care about your silly Tumblr things, Hugo," Bryon scolds playfully, coming out of nowhere to cuff the boy. "Stop bothering Penryn!"

"It's not that," I murmur, eyes narrowing. I scroll up to the scenes with me flapping my wings and making a fuss. "It's more along the lines of alarm. See, I can understand how you, master of secrets, can get ahold of information like this" – I elbow Hugo in the ribs – "but I don't understand how some internet artist can. Mind explaining?"

"Easy peasy, actually." Hugo waves a hand dismissively. "I told her. I had the secrets, and I sold them to her. It's part of my business, remember?"

My alarm bells ring on a whole new octave. "So, you've basically been stalking Raffe and I. You've got a bunch of information that can thrust us into absolute chaos, and you've been _selling it off_?"

Hugo sighs, drawing out the exhale. "That's where things get complicated. There definitely would be a profit if Raffe were travelling alone. He's got more bounties on his head than – heck, I don't even know how many he's accumulated. There are so many angel hunters probing me for his locations, weaknesses, expectations at the moment. However, his decision to travel with you, Miss Young" – Hugo places emphasis on my last name, leaving me a better glimpse at his motives – "seems to have inadvertently saved his ass. No one wants to anger the crowd you've got building behind you. So they all fuck off when I tell them to."

Bryon groans in exasperation. "Can we please cut back on the swearing? Like, seriously? You do nothing but curse."

"Does it fucking look like I'm gonna stop using these goddamned swear words, you bastard?" Hugo spits.

Bryon rolls his eyes, scooping Paige into his arms, allowing her to perch on his shoulders. "You're going to hell."

Hugo grins devilishly. "Bay's in hell, so it's good enough for me."

Muttering something beneath his breath, Bryon looks away with an annoyed roll of his eyes. "I'm sorry," Hugo prompts, blinking innocently, "what was that?"

"Uh, when is there the next full moon?" Bryon questions, his change of subjects sloppy and obvious.

"Smooth," Hugo smirks, shaking his head. "Like, seriously, Bryon, that's an all-time low for you, and not everyone inherits that 'charisma'. But, actually, now that we've just, _ahem_, switched topics, I would be happy to inform you that the full moon will indeed by dawning approximately when we exit this hellhole."

"Brilliant." Bryon grins with all his teeth, childish ebullience sparking to life in his expression. "I do love full moons. They're my favorite nights in the world."

"Full moons?" My brow creases, and I find myself eyeing Bryon quizzically. "Why? What's up with the full moon?"

"Full moons!" Hugo gasp, amazement raising his voiced to a jubilant trill. "Oh, Penryn, you innocent little thing! The full moon is a symbol of rebirth, of beauty, of when the blind eye in the sky sees the most. That's the night the Nephilim wander about and dance, because the angels don't risk flying under a full moon – too much light, they're too easily spotted. Man, I wish we had been able to make it to Sercem Domu in time for the full moon – you see, once a month, the Nephilim hold this massive celebration. There's giant dancing circles and lines, karaoke singing, fancy clothing, love and beauty in the air – children will be making flower leis and decorating the town, and there will be contest of the most beautiful necklace and such. There's laughter and merriment in the air. No alcohol, though – it's a holy day as well, and even the slightest suggestion of the sins that alcohol can provide is strictly forbidden."

"Hmm," agrees Bryon. His eyes are distant, carried to the Nephilim town of which Hugo speaks. "I bet you Miguel will lead a herd of spirited men through the town on a cheerful rampage, and Mariabell a herd of males in her wake. And do you suppose they have put up all the flags? The ones stringing from house to house between balconies? Sariel and Penemue always bicker over who can fly through those obstacles the fastest. I remember once, when I was just a little boy, they raced, and Penemue won by a landslide. Sariel was so angry with himself he paced around the rest of the night. Now, everyone with wings does things like that – I can bet you that Miguel won't finish first."

"That's right!" Hugo gasps, smacking his forehead. "Oh, man, I completely forgot about those. Some cities have them for wolves, too. Scruffy's won so many times I feel guilty entering him in anything. Rumbbaa's also taken away quite a few medals from that thing. Daine's pretty proud of that. Don't forget the Dragon Ceremony, either!" Hugo flicks his hand in Bryon's direction, and a stone bounces off his skull. "All the children line up at midnight, right before they're ushered off to sleep, and sit anxiously around the bush in the center of the tree." He nudges me in the ribs. "Paige would've done it if we'd been in the town, to help purify her soul or whatnot. Each of the children would have a candle. At the exact same moment, the second that the moon hits the exact center of the sky, they blow the candles out. And, legend has it, the flames go to the bush, and that ol' bush burns. Like, seriously, after a second or two, the bush bursts into flame. I dunno, I still think it's mumbo jumbo, but I haven't dug anything up yet."

"The bush burns?" I frown skeptically. "How does it survive until the next full moon?"

"That's the thing." Bryon's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Despite what this pessimist will have you believing, it's not normal flame. Remember the burning bush that God used to speak to Moses?"

"Moses?" I question, surprised by the biblical history.

"Moses, yeah. I didn't like him, he stole my staff and wouldn't give it back 'til he made rivers into blood and nasty stuff like that. But the burning bush is the same. It's the foundation of my faith, and the faith of all the Nephilim."

"They're all religious sticklers," Hugo whispers in my ear, the rasping words loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Maybe." Bryon's ancient smile holds knowledge and amusement. "But have you noticed that the Nephilim are the happiest people around? Even on the edge of the apocalypse, they're taking in refugees, nursing the injured angel back to health, and restoring the humans their courage with festivals and songs to lift their spirits. I would sincerely enjoy seeing a society based on something other than faith in some sort of god becoming as regal as the Nephilim have."

Raffe's voice is alien in the conversation, as if we'd gone bereft his input so long it spooked us all. "On that topic, why, exactly, are these Nephilim still partying around at the end of the world as they know it? Shouldn't they be preoccupied with slightly more important things?"

Bryon's melodic laughter is even more humored than before. "Even if I were to go into the most depth I possibly could, Raphael, you would still not understand. It is in their nature to help, to protect. What else should they be doing? Raising arms? Getting themselves massacred like pigs in a slaughterhouse? You know better than many that such would be a poor choice of action. Instead, they're changing thousands of lives by raising morale and constructing families again. The angels don't notice, of course, but everyone is helping out the humans. If the humans are the ones to take up arms, they'll have more than monkey armies at their back."

"You're right," Raffe harrumphs. "I don't get it. If there are still Nephilim in bulk – which there seem to be, you two talk very decidedly about things – it is highly illogical to have such revelations that easily draw attention to themselves. And another thing I don't understand." He draws closer to the torchlight, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Hugo made it seem liked you had it planned that I was to go to this cozy Nephilim town. Don't tell me you think that's a good idea, if you truly care for your little monsters."

"As a matter of fact, there are Nephilim in bulk." Bryon's jaw clenches – the word _monster_ obviously doesn't have such a good effect on his attitude. "And the reason they revel is because they're not afraid of the angels. No one is. We hate you, and we don't want to trifle with you, but it's not out of fear. A war would be inconvenient. I suppose you've been out of the loop for a while, Raphael, but I might as well update you, for your own good." His head cocks, bronze eyes weighed down with cynical disdain. "The Manhattan and London aeries have fallen in the past two weeks. Before that, there was the Orlando aerie, and before that, Dallas. And you know what, arch?" Bryon leans closer to Bryon. "The only one your high-and-mighty archangels know about is Dallas. The inconvenient war has already started."

"How nice," Raffe drawls. His tightening fist and quick, unsettled glance to the right are only visible to me. "But that still doesn't explain why the Nephilim are welcoming me, the harbinger of their destruction, into their towns."

Bryon laughs without much color. "They don't fear you, either, Raphael. We know your motives. You don't want to die, you want to regain control of the angels and get the hell out of here, it's extremely predictable. They would be able to shoot you down before you got a mile from their base if you tried to run. If you try to exterminate them, Ariel will call the cherubs again, and slaughter you solely. If you tried anything sneaky or hidden once restored, you would be murdered by the spies in the angelic ranks if you hadn't already been assassinated on your trip to get back. Because, although a shadow of the terror you inspired lives on, you've done what every great civilization has done: you haven't improved as the centuries passed. As the world adapts and shifts around you, you remain immortal and attached to the old ways. We've changed, learned how to counter every attack in your book. A sole angel is not a threat to anyone."

"He's not a sole angel." I meet my uncle's gaze hostilely. "I'm by his side, and the Nephilim should probably worry about a haywire Young on the loose."

The moment the rebuttal escapes my lips, Bryon's face softens. It loses the hardened general look about it, melting back into the friendly big-brother grin. Admiration gleams for a few seconds short as he stares at me with approval, clapping me on invisibly at my ability to defuse him.

With a sigh, Bryon meets Raffe's eyes. "It seems that Penryn must tell me to do so before I can correct my attitude. Apologies, I know how this is, I've gone through it myself. Perhaps we should forget about the past and focus on the future…?"

"I don't know what you did in the past," reminds Raffe through gritted teeth.

"I was referring to –" He clears his throat and glances at the ground. "Never mind, not worth a bicker. Hopefully, we can resolve things between the two of us, in good time."

Raffe grunts, glancing sideways at Bryon thoughtfully. "I don't make friends easily." A lengthy pause follows that statement, but Bryon still seems to await more. Raffe provides. "I don't make friends easily, but those I do make, I make carefully. If it means anything, I hope you and I get along in the long run."

Brotherly affection beams in Bryon's approving grin. But, before anyone can utter a sound, Hugo starts to chatter.

"I got that entire conversation written down. Officially posted. It is going to get more reblogs than I could ever imagine! Oh, man, look at all these notes!"

Bryon sighs heavily, pace returning to a happy lollygagging gait. He hums a gentle tune beneath his breath, pacing his walking along to his music. Although at first I'm baffled by the gentle, cheery rhythm, it hits me like a slap up the face, and I cannot help but sing along to the next line or two.

"And on the corner is a banker with a motorcar," I sing, enlivened by the familiar Beatles melody. "The little children laugh at him behind his back!"

The tune echoes off the rock walls and bounces over the sheer cliffs, driving home just how large the giant caverns are. With my sole voice, it seems lonely, empty.

Bryon smiles, his beatific grin giving way to the next line. His voice banishes the sense of solitude, the two echoes vaulting off the stones in unison. We harmonize with the words: "And the banker never wears a mac in the pouring rain, very strange!"

Hugo joins us with the chorus, and Ogden hums along. Even Paige sways to the beat from Bryon's shoulder, patting his head with the rhythm. "Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes! There beneath the blue suburban skies, I sit and meanwhile back…"

"What are you all doing?" questions Raffe in utter bewilderment as we launch cheerfully into the next stanza. Every word seems to remedy a bit of my insecurity, a bit of my hopelessness, and a bit of my worries – instead, the lyrics carry me to my own home town and every little weird person I'd ogle at. Better days, better times.

"In Penny Lane, there is a fireman with an hourglass, and in his pocket is a portrait of the queen! He likes to keep his fire engine clean, it's a clean machine."

I recall the long musical of nothing but a whiny trumpet, and fall silent. Both Hugo and Bryon hum out the music, miming instruments in the air. Paige still taps out her beat on Bryon's head, and Ogden practically sings along with thunderous humming. Raffe pads along, keeping his distance, still puzzled by our ridiculous habits.

I join the chorus a beat late, despite Bryon's warning glance in my direction. Still, we join in song, same as ever. "Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes! Four of fish and finger pies in summer, meanwhile back!"

"What does that even mean?" Raffe huffs, his confusion becoming irritation.

Before I can do more than glance in amusement in his direction, the next stanza is upon us. "Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout, a pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray! And though she feels as if she's in a play, she is anyway.

"In Penny Lane, the barber shaves another customer. We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim, then the fireman rushes in from the pouring rain, very strange!"

Hugo slides off Scruffy approximately halfway through the chorus to start waltzing with Bryon down the road – the two men take to the carefree dancing with giddy alacrity. I splutter with laughter halfway through the stanza at the sight of their flawless choral expressions and the way Paige grips Bryon's neck tighter every time he dips Hugo. Somehow, I manage to pull myself together for the last go-round of the chorus.

"Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes!" we warble together, any trace of previous harmony lost. "There beneath the blue suburban skies! Penny Lane!"

As we crumble into laughter, each of us choking on it, from little Paige to Ogden the Ox, I can't help but glance around the little group. We'd just been in the midst of a terrible argument between perhaps two of the most powerful men in the world, and now, here we are, reeling from our own awful singing in a silly, redundant Beatles tune. The concept only warms my heart, only lightens my laughter.

"What –" Raffe sighs curtly. "I'm having each and every one of you locked away in an insane asylum when we get to any sort of civilization, anywhere."

* * *

Bryon lifts his hands to the sky and laughs thunderously, twirling around once in the barren clearing. The brown cloak chases after his legs like an obedient mutt. He breathes in deeply for a third time, closing his eyes, his expression blissful.

"You enjoying yourself there?" I tease, wading through the ankle-high grasses and weeds painted navy by the starlight.

Bryon's eyes peel open, the bronze there startlingly bright – the moonlight seems to have brought their brilliance to a different level of luminance, bringing them now their own gleam and glow, the bronze sheen against the royal purple of the rolling hills behind him a shocking contrast. Laughing heartily, Bryon surges forward, his arms of steel closing around me in a tight, brief embrace. I laugh awkwardly as he sets me down, still beaming.

"Ah, Penryn, can't you just feel it!" He inhales for the fourth time, as if he can pick up a fragrance not tangible to my nose. "In the air! The cold, crisp night! Each of the little stars watching us with beady silver eyes, the seas of blue grass swaying in the midnight breeze like a lion's mane whipped up by the breeze, the freedom howling in the distance! Can't you just feel it, Penryn? In the air, in the wind! This is where I belong!"

His lunatic behavior is amusing enough for me to chortle. "Yeah, it feels pretty nice, Bryon. But it's just a full moon, and, unless there's werewolves galloping about, that's all it is."

"Werewolves?" Bryon snorts, halting his crackhead twirling. "Please, Penryn, don't be ridiculous." He pauses thoughtfully. "Werewolves come out on the new moon."

"You're kidding, right?"

Bryon laughs maniacally, but doesn't answer. Instead, he lifts his head to the sky and admires the constellations.

"How I've missed the stars." Bryon sighs, wistful passion gleaming in his illuminant bronze eyes. "That's one thing I did hate about humankind – you seemed to not take pleasure in simple things like that, smogging up the atmosphere and shining your lights so bright that you can't possibly appreciate them."

"Yeah," I agree, glancing up at the gorgeous painting, "it kinda sucked to live in the city." Admiration swells in my heart as I study the artwork above – it looks as if someone had taken pale blue and lilac paint to a black canvas and splattered it all over, not leaving a speck of darkness unmarred. The euphoric dance of stars and ethereal smudges of diaphanous gold all seem at home in their place in above me, forming a sphere around us.

"One time," I recall, intrigued by the shrewd beauty of the stars, "my dad took me camping, deep out into the woods, the middle of nowhere. He told me creepy camp stories and we stargazed for a bit. One of my best memories with him."

"Nighttime is the best time for bonding, of any sort," Bryon agrees. "I wish to see if Raffe and I can perhaps heal the wounds that had been dealt with that earlier argument."

"I dunno," I judge skeptically, "he's not really a forgive-and-forget kinda –"

"Excuse you," Raffe interrupts with a pouty sour glance my direction. He steps up between Bryon and I, arms crossed. He, too, seems pleased with the cool night breeze, airing out his bat wings. "Talking behind someone's back? That's not nice. That's not nice at all."

"Sorry." I shrug unapologetically. "It's true."

"Sorta is." Hugo stumbles up with the grace of an ostrich, tripping over Scruffy's feet. The wolf seems delighted, tail wagging, his bandages barely holding him back from leaping upon everyone. From Scruffy's back, Paige grins, kicking his ribs like he's a little pony for her to goad into action. She laughs with terse exclamation, practically strangling like the poor wolf, snuggling against his luxuriously soft pelt, perhaps to ease the itch of the stitching. Wincing at my sister's behavior, Hugo steps forward with his palms raised towards her. "Be gentle, darling. He's soft and breakable. Like my arms. Pigeon-Bat, please don't break my arms."

Bryon clears his throat loudly, drawing attention to himself. Closing both hands over his staff and leaning against the length of solid wood, he decrees, "We need another icebreaker, don't we?"

Ogden struts over, placing one hand on Scruffy's flank and waving the other in the air wildly. He grins and gestures towards the ground and Bryon's staff, then to the starry mosaic above.

"Oooo!" Hugo's eyes sparkle in the moonlight, opalescent shades of copper and ginger overlapping. "Yes! Do the thing, Bryon!"

Bryon's eyebrows rise, one corner of his lips jerking back in the fragment of smile. "The thing?"

"Yeah!" Gleefully, Hugo quickly jogs off the field, as if placing us in quarantine. "You know, the moon thing! With the flowers? Penryn, Pigeon-Bat, find your own space, you'll want it! You too, Scruffy! Take Paige somewhere special!"

In this world that I've been dragged into, I'm prepared for nearly anything to happen, so I follow the advice of the merchant, striding from Raffe's side to a place parallel to Bryon. After brief hesitation, Raffe follows my lead.

"I haven't even told you if I'm going to do the thing," Bryon chuckles, readjusting his grip on the staff with callused hands. Steady breaths fill his lungs. "Before you ask, yes, I'm doing the thing."

Hugo does nothing more than issue Bryon a thumbs up, and slam his finger to his lips immediately afterwards. Taking his cue, I fall silent, watching Bryon intensely.

As Bryon bows over his staff, clutching it with two hands, measuring each inhale and timing each exhale, a zephyr whispers in my ears. The intelligible voice of the breeze seems to speak of ancient sorcery and ageless runes, of a time past and a time still to come. I breathe in the redolent air, tasting midnight's bittersweet perfume on my tongue.

Bryon lifts the bottom tip of his staff from the earth, inhaling sharply.

He slams it back against the ground with immediate effects.

From the place where the wood had hit the grass, dense flowers bloom. The blossoms flourish outwards in a steady, swift growth, almost as if it is a flower itself. The hills and the mountains and creeks all around us are swept with blue as the flood stampedes over each ridge and over each creek, bathing the forest in luminance. They turn their faces to the moon, and, from the moment their petals touch the air, the flowers emit soft, beautiful, blue light, like little glow sticks. I suck in an escaped breath as the ones that bloom around my feet and beneath them are released from their stalks as I turn about to watch the cascade of flowers over the mountains. My disbelief can be heard my rapid breathing, be felt in the hammer of my pulse, be seen in the amazement breaking over my face. Some of the flowers I had not even touched by anything but air waves, I suppose. But every blossom affected by me begins to drift gradually upwards, spinning lazily on their ascent – almost like dandelion seeds, caught in a breeze.

"What the hell," whisper Raffe to my left. He, too, is surrounded by the blue flowers, scooping at them with wide sweeps of his wings to release them into the air. Awe unlike anything I have ever seen in him dominates his expression as he watches them drift upwards. Once the flowers he disturbs float into the sky, though, I cannot help but notice that they do not return to him.

"Enjoy them while they last," calls Hugo, frolicking amongst the grass, a minimal amount of flowers drifting out behind him – it's almost as if he's trying to see how little he can set off. "The first ray of sun sucks their life from them like scorpion-wasp-people suck life from monkeys."

"Was that last part truly necessary?" questions Bryon, twirling through the empty field with his cloak trailing behind him, a massive trail of luminescent blossoms in his wake, clouds of them drifting into the sky. "But he's right. They only can be found on the full moon, too, so enjoy."

I remain as still as a statue, attempting to not even touch another blossom. "What are these?" I whisper.

"What are they?" Bryon truly laughs, the hearty thunder rolling over the valley, the pure vibrations sending the flowers around him into the sky. "They go by many names – Blue Moons, Star Blooms, Floating Flowers – but my favorite is 'the Wishing Blossoms'. For some reason, only my father and I can trigger their flowering – don't ask me how it happens, I quite honestly am not sure. All I know is that they float, and that they don't ever come down."

"But…" I try to sound scientific, knowledgeable, but I end up sounding simply baffled. "How?"

"He won't let me study them," Hugo reports, "and, honestly, I won't press that. I'm a fact guy, I like science, but there are some things you've just gotta excuse, you know? And, let's be honest, they'd be the most difficult things in the world to study. How would you even catch one? With a net?" He gropes at the air, lunging at the floating flowers, sending them caterwauling on their paths. At that moment, Scruffy rockets past him with Paige giggling on his back – the two of them trace crossing lines over the mountains with his subsonic speed, sending thousands of little flowers slowly floating upwards.

"I've got one," announces Bryon, cupping something tenderly between his palms. Smiling benevolently, he plods in my direction, staff pinched in the crook of his arm. "Here." Bryon extends his hands to me, breaking through the storm of blossoms drifting around him. "Take a peek."

Quivering both from overwhelmed emotions and rabid curiosity, I gaze between his large hands, studying the blossom inside. It's shaped almost like a lily with broader petals and less of a pistil. The luminescent color it shines is the palest electric blue, casting beautiful shadows over the palms of Bryon's hands and the planes of his face as it bumps gingerly against his ensnaring fingers. Cautiously, I reach out to take it myself, and Bryon complies – for a moment it sits there, halfway between my hands and his, brushing my fingers with petals as soft as a baby's pale skin. But it sees its chance and drifts between the break of fingers, escaping with its brothers and sisters into the dark night sky.

"It's so beautiful," I murmur, head craned back.

"Yes," answers Raffe from the air – he darts between the floating clouds of flowers, cleaving through them like a knife through butter. Whenever there is a lessening in the flowers swirling and circling, he drags his wing through an empty portion of the field, releasing more into the air. "Yes it is!"

"Look at him," Bryon murmurs for my ears solely. "As giddy as a chick first learning to fly. I suppose that's what being out of that hellhole can do to an angel – they get very twitchy in enclosed areas. And the flowers _are_ quite beautiful. Come on, they won't hurt you."

I gaze once around the regal valley – the mountains once swept with the rounded crests of trees and painted with royal purples and emerald greens now glow blue between the branches of the trees, emitting a soft luminance that seems to touch the stars. Little trails of blossoms lead to the sky from elsewhere, surrounding us on all sides – animals, too, must be wandering these woods, or perhaps another merchant travels a few ridges south from here and stumbled upon this magnificent of beauty. Whatever the case, all the little blossoms leading up to the black velvet sky and the beautiful constellations there is truly worthy of a picture, if only I had a camera. The stars almost seem to welcome the flowers, their cold lights burning a little brighter upon the arrival of their sisters from the earth. Over all of it, the moon still hangs in the sky, almost as if it's a mother's watchful eye over her children as they spin and twirl and dance over the earth below.

Breathing in the dulcet perfume of the blossoms all around me, I take a step into their sea of glowing petals, savoring the moment as the flowers take wing around me, drifting up to join Raffe in the sky.

In my ecstasy, I don't notice the fact that the other trails of glorious flowers seem to encircle us, surrounding our meadow in the way that the predator traps the prey.

* * *

**Alright, well, I had fun with this chapter. I was actually planning to make this one short for you, but... it didn't happen. Sorry.**

**Here's something to think about: Sariel taught Bryon how to get the flowers to bloom when he was just a little thing, in I think the first dream Penryn had. Paige is attached to Bryon and Bryon worships her. Maybe the family trick can get passed down or something. But what do I know? I'm just the writer. **

**POLL: So, they spent a long time travelling in that Nephilim Temple. They're actually quite close to the Sercem Domu (the town), and things are just about to heat up. I'm getting more and more excited. But here's a question: how do you think the Nephilim will receive Penryn and Raffe? Raffe has hunted them for thousands of years, and Penryn... well, she's Bryon's niece, but she's also travelling with and defending Raffe. **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Raphael?"

My skin tingles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with alarm at the sound of the alien voice crying out Raffe's name with desperation and despair on his tongue. My eyes clap against a bloody figure limping from the shrouding shadows of the trees, releasing a trail of flowers. Two wings trail behind the humanoid creature, one only connected by a few veins, the other butchered beyond recognition.

Raffe tenses at the sight of the angel, quickly hiding his demonic wings by snapping them shut against his back. While I analyze the situation, still as a statue in the safety of the open meadow, Raffe approaches with open palms and an expression of disbelief.

"Yaoel," he whispers, stepping in front of Bryon to draw even nearer to the wary angel. "My friend. What are you doing here, so far from the aerie, out in the woods? There are creatures here, unfriendly animals."

The angel snorts, relief coming over his face, slumping his shoulders and relaxing his grip on the sword hilt he'd been clutching so tightly. "You needn't tell me –"

A flash of white sends flowers twirling into the air – it moves so quickly it might as well have been a bullet from a gun. With the sound of tearing flesh quickly cutting off the angel's speech, his head is savagely ripped form his body by a massive white wolf.

Raffe scampers back like a startled mouse, his wings snapping out to their full glory as his friend's decapitated head thuds against the ground at his feet. Hissing with rage, he reaches for a sword strapped to my own hip. Before he can truly register its loss, Bryon has already clapped a hand around Raffe's forearm, dragging him away from the white wolf.

"Stand down, Raphael!" Bryon orders, his tone solid as a block of ice. "Stand down, or we'll have your head at our feet!"

Raffe pays Bryon no heed, kicking and clawing like a little child, roaring at the wolf in fury.

The wolf pays him no heed, either. It has the same spark of cruel beauty as Raffe does himself – the flawless, streamlined build of the swift hunter, and the thick coat of a lupine predator. And, in its eyes, Raffe must seem like the prey as much as the limp angel body at its paws. Glancing once mockingly at Raffe's struggles against Bryon, the wolf buries its snout into the angel's belly, snapping his ribs in half on an upward blow to allow free passage to his more critical internal organs. I glance away as it rips something mercilessly from the chest of the angel, tossing aside lungs and bloody grey organs in the process, looking at the ground.

"Ah, Jane," sighs Hugo tranquilly. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Swallowing with immense difficulty, I drag my gaze up to his perch on Scruffy's back, tapping away at his computer. Bile rises in the back of my throat.

"This is Scruffy's girlfriend?" I choke out.

"Yes. The murderer of the murderers." With a devilish grin in my direction, he snaps the lid of his laptop shut. "Angels have this crazy regenerative factor, you know? Like, I've seen one get shot straight through the noodle before and live to tell the tale. That's because as long as most of their internal organs are intact, they can patch themselves back up. Unless you've got an angel sword, because then the metal gives them an allergic reaction and – whoa, getting sidetracked. Anyway, to avoid having her victims wake up and seek revenge, Jane eats them. Foolhardy method. I mean, digested angel isn't going to be doing any zombie shit."

"That's sick," I groan, pivoting away from the she wolf, ignoring the crunch of bones snapping beneath teeth, the rip of organs being torn brutally from their placement in the angel's body. Raffe's furious bellows do well to drone out most of the noises, but not all.

"Hmm. A bit." Hugo's grin grows even broader. "What she does first is she separates the brain and the heart. Good strategy, right? Then she peels back the ribs to trowel out the heart, mauling as many other valuable organs as she can, shredding the lungs and cutting the arteries. She eats that, getting it digesting early on. Then she goes after the brain. You see, when she rips of his head" – Hugo starts to make explanatory gestures, gestures I don't really need nor want to see – "she bites him just so that her upper canines sink into his eye sockets and her lower canines hit him at the base of the neck. To get to his brain, she eats out all the marrow and the flesh and muscles until she starts munching at his noggin. She then proceeds to clean out his skull, licking all the blood and skin away. Sometimes, she eats the rest of the corpse, too – other times, just the meaty sections, leaving the rest for scavengers. She always keeps the skulls, though, the skulls and a few of the feathers. Clever girl."

"Clever?" I glare at him. "I can understand dog-eat-dog logic. I know, I've lived through situations like that. But this sounds like murder to me, a madwoman's murder."

Hugo spreads his hands in an iffy expression. "The murder of a murderer. Who's at fault? Depends on your viewpoint. But she's clever in the way to separate the body and the head. According to scientists, even, scientists studying the theories of the soul, it's the throne of the actual soul – the being of a person – that's in the area of the heart. The mind of a person – the thoughts, the knowledge – is in the skull. The soul goes on, it can leave this plane and pass on after Jane kills one of her victims. But the mind is forever imprisoned in the skull without the heart's soul to first free it, and it can never, ever leave. Jane stockpiles all those skulls in her den, forming her own version of the European Catacombs. All those angry and confused minds together in one space makes those dark tunnels very scary. Some say Jane feeds off thoughts. Others say it's a deal she made with the Devil. All I know is that it's the perfect place to summon Lucius."

"Lucius?" I turn back to Jane, swallowing my disgust, watching as she does indeed rip the skin from the angel's scalp in an effort to reach his brain. Her muzzle is splashed with crimson, her amethyst eyes shadowed with scarlet. Although Scruffy does seem to be drooling, I cannot see a single thing beautiful in the beast anymore.

"Uh huh. The best place to summon a demon is a place that's felt suffering. Nothing's felt suffering like those angel heads. But enough with this depressing conversation." Hugo swings his legs over Scruffy's back, dismounting his wolf only to nudge at the angel's limp wing with his toe. "Now, let's talk about the name Yaoel. That sounds like it came from anime. One of those type-names. Who names their killer angels Yaoel? Hey, Ogden, can you grab my gauntlet?"

Plodding over obediently with a thick metal glove held gingerly in his arms, Ogden hands Hugo the metal contraption. Fascinated, I watch as Hugo slides on the glove and promptly leans down to pluck the angel's sword from his side, flicking it to rid it of some of the sticky blood coating. He lifts the blade to his eye level, looking down the edge to search for imperfections and flaws.

"It's in pretty good condition." He knits his brow. "Yeah, okay. We'll keep it. Seems pretty likely we'll find a buyer soon – you seeing those marks on the wings, too, Ogden? Make sure those steampunk goggles are secure, because I'm pretty sure that the Wives were the ones did this too him; looks to me that Jane just finished the job." Patting Ogden on the shoulder, Hugo turns his back on the corpse and on the monstrous white wolf without a care, holding the sword with his metal gauntlet.

"What are you doing?" Raffe booms, breaking free from Bryon's lock long enough to march up to Hugo. "Are you attempting to plunder the weapon?"

Calmly, Hugo meets Raffe's gaze, tossing the sword up once experimentally. "Yeah, actually, I am. It's not like he's using it anymore."

His statement rubs Raffe the wrong way, as if the angel hadn't been strung up enough.

Voice the low, dangerous growl of the pissed off predator, Raffe settles into an offensive stance. "An angel's sword is his being. His entire soul. His heart, his legacy, his very being. You will not steal his sword from his bloody corpse." Raffe peels his lips over his teeth in a feral snarl. "I will kill you a thousand times before you can take another step from his body."

"Angels are very passionate people, aren't they?" Giggling childishly, a platinum blonde walks from the shadows of the woods – in our chaos, we hadn't even registered her approaching trail of flowers. "You're so funny, absolutely fascinating. Of course, people were the exact same way about their houses and families." Abruptly, her cheerful, round face sharpens, like the broad of the blade being turned until only the edge is visible. "Such a pity the angels ripped those from their hands."

"Daisy," laughs Bryon with relief, his tense muscles relaxing. "At last! Backup! Where's Mauler?"

Her expression softening once more, the blonde strides proudly right up to Bryon, shedding light upon their difference in height – she barely stands at five-two, whereas he towers nearby seven whole feet. "Bryon!" Daisy cries with the drawled accent exploited only in the deep heart of the South, throwing her slender arms around his waist and squeezing. "Oh, it's so good to see you! We had a feeling you were around here somewhere when we saw Tabitha!"

"Tabitha?" I question, voice so soft I don't believe it'll carry over Raffe's intense growling.

"Bryon's unicorn," Hugo explains with a wink in my direction. "With good fortune, we'll see her soon. She's very… irritable."

"Tabitha is not _my_ unicorn, and she's not irritable." Bryon's indignant reaction is more feisty than what it had been defending his own rights. "You are just remarkably talented at ticking people off. You even make unicorns want to gore you in the gut, for God's sake."

The woman, Daisy, laughs. "Hugo is just a special child, aren't you?"

Hugo winks characteristically, leaning forward – in character is what comes to mind, in character of the steampunk merchant, which means this woman is branded as a customer in his eyes.

Daisy laughs at his response, tossing her head up. Her sweater sleeves are slightly too long for her arms, her jeans coming up below her ankles. At her hip, a set of knives hang, partnered with an old fashioned silver revolver. Bright green eyes the color of the golden sun through summer leaves glint in the darkness, reflecting the gleam of the blue flowers. Around her neck, layers of charms and spiritual pendants hang from leather necklaces. Almost everything on her being, from her nearly white hair to her knee-high riding boots, is splattered in various shades and tints of paint.

I do not have long to ogle before I am ripped from my analyzation – something cold and scaly dashes up my leg, winding around it like a snake. Tiny claws pinch into my back and sink into the soft skin of my neck. Jumping and attempting to shake the creature from me, I scream, lashing my shoulder to and fro to loosen its ever-tightening grip.

"Penryn," Bryon husks, a single hand around my flailing fist halting my awkward bucking. "Belle won't hurt you. She's merely curious."

The animal on my shoulders croaks in agreement, almost like a frog.

"Penryn," Raffe whispers in horror, blue eyes wide as pools, tinted the same color as the flowers crowning him. "Don't you dare move. I'll get it off."

Hugo snorts, twirling the angel sword in one hand, nonchalantly ambling over until he's located between Raffe and me. "Ah, no, you won't. You really think I'm going to let you kill another Nephilim? With both a Wife and two of the most powerful ones right here? Not likely."

"This is a Nephilim?" I breathe, rock-still as the creature's flaring nostrils hover over my ear, not daring to protest as it experimentally nuzzles my hair, pulling a strand playfully. It whines and whimpers, cold, serpentine tail writhing over my flesh like a snake in what may be a creepy tail-wag.

"Yes." Gently, Bryon drops my hand, allowing it to hang limply. Extending an arm towards my shoulder, Bryon offers himself as a new perch for the monster. "And just a baby, poor little thing. Her mother was slaughtered when the angels attacked Kenya – the town was obliterated, everyone and everything slaughtered except for her. Nobody knows who the paternal or maternal parents are, but Belle here travels with the Wives."

My taut muscles unravel as the tiny claws release my skin and Belle creeps onto Bryon's thick, muscled arm. A long tail hangs down from her perch, the very tip frayed with long hairs, like a lion's tuft. She's a little larger than a Chihuahua, but not by much. In the darkness of the moment, I can tell no more than that upon her physical features.

"Penryn, honey –" Daisy hesitates, smiling crookedly. "Penryn? Penryn Young?"

I nod in confirmation. "The same."

"Hmm." Daisy grins at me, a more motherly spark entering her evergreen eyes, her expression softening under gaze. "Well, Penryn, dear, Thea will be very glad hear you're in safe hands." She pats Bryon's shoulder in explanation. "I hope you and Belle will get along; she really is quite sweet."

"How has she been, again?" Bryon questions, itching beneath Belle's chin.

"Oh, Belle has been a dream!" Daisy sighs happily. "Her and Mauler get along brilliantly. Mauler really is the sweetest wolf in all the Wife Pack, isn't he? So laid back! This week alone, I swear –"

"Hugo said something I'd like to extend upon," Raffe thunders. The icy, deadly quality to his voice racks my body with startled shivers, and his sinister appearance does no better to assist my building alarm – the scythes on his wings are stretched to full length, hooks still slightly bloodied from their last use. "If I am correct, Hugo just claimed that we are in the presence of a Watcher's wife" – he looks to the mechanic for confirmation, a confirmation he receives without effort – "and three Nephilim." Again, Hugo nods, casually twisting the angelic sword about in one hand.

In the periphery of my vision, I see more sleek-pelted wolves than Jane and Scruffy roiling in the depths of the forest, flashing their ivory fangs, releasing battalions of flowers into the air. I could perhaps be incorrect, but a few dark blots in the sky seem to circle overhead our position. Bryon's grip tightens on his staff, and Daisy slowly edges behind Raffe.

"Oh, dear." Daisy sounds concerned. "Did he not know about that? Oh, you poor thing." She starts forward, thrusting one arm around to the small of his back and rubbing the other up and down his bicep in a motherly fashion. "C'mon, let's get you cocoa and marshmallows a nice, warm fire, eh? How does that sound?"

"Stop it," Raffe snarls, not even looking at Daisy as he bats the woman away. She blinks in injured astonishment, her sleeves falling over her hands as Raffe leaves her behind to stalk up to Bryon.

"Bryon," Raffe growls, teeth bared like a feral hound's, "I'm only going to ask you once. Are you a Nephilim?"

Bryon cocks an eyebrow, not meeting Raffe's gaze, but instead caressing the tips of his fingers around Belle's horns, studying her monstrous face as she purrs and mewls beneath his hands. With each second that ticks by, Bryon seems to undermine Raffe's authority a little more – I don't want to see my uncle ripped apart by Raffe, nor I do I want to see that arrogant archangel humiliated by Bryon; if Bryon doesn't answer soon, I will take the risk and step between the two.

Luckily, however, Bryon does find time in his snuggle therapy to respond to Raffe.

"I'm quite surprised you didn't notice earlier, Raphael." Bryon meets Raffe's gaze with a serene look that balms even my nerves. "I do pray this doesn't interfere with our friendship. That would be quite awful."

Both Daisy and Ogden cry out as Raffe lunges, his fist closing around Bryon's throat. I shout to stop him, but nothing seems to puncture Raffe's battle armor sufficiently enough to breach his instinctive rage. Raffe lifts Bryon from the ground and swiftly hefts him several feet before slamming him into the trunk of a nearby tree, the impact of Bryon against wood so mighty, frail twigs rain and leaves swirl to the ground like a thunderstorm. The wolves in the darkness huff and bark threateningly, still mulling behind an invisible line. Belle is thrown violently from his shoulder, thudding against the ground, hissing in fear at Raffe, and retreating into the bowels of the dark forest for protection.

Bryon's face reddens as Raffe's grip tightens, but he doesn't fight back. He simply watches Raffe with innocent bronze eyes, even as Raffe's fist furls and his arm tenses for a punch atop the strangling.

"Raffe!" I shout, tugging on his bicep. "Stop it!" Though I resent the idea of using his beloved sword against him, it may come to that if he comes to blows.

I know that the wolves are awaiting a command to pounce on Raffe and rip him to shreds. From what I've heard, Raffe isn't very popular, and his death will mean nothing to Bryon's life. The very real possibility haunts me. Fueled by this discord, I snarl and wrestle with him as best I can, dragging back his arm until I can squeeze through the gagging Bryon and him.

Slamming my fist into his throat, I successfully knock Raffe off his balance – his focus had been tunneled on Bryon, his thinking patterns narrow, not searching for another target. As he recoils, gasping to refill his lungs from the deprivation of oxygen, I come as close to his face as possible, grab his collar in an attempt to be superior as opposed to dragging his head down to my level, and rumble, "Raphael. You. Leave. Him. Alone."

At this, Raffe recoils, releasing Bryon and allowing the Dragon King to slump against the bark of the tree, gasping for breath. His umbrage has a new focus – me.

"Penryn," he growls in a tone that legitimately frightens me, "would you like to explain to me what exactly you're doing?"

"Keeping you from getting killed," I discipline in as hard as voice as I can muster while staring into those furious blue eyes.

"Oh?" His breathing grows ragged. "Are you?"

"Take a look around, Raffe. We're in Nephilim territory. I'm not exactly sure about the Wives, but they seem badass enough to have been originally been the ones tracking your dead friend over there. They can probably pitch in, too. Don't look up now, but we've also got buddies to the sky. If you take a wrong step here, you'll get yourself slaughtered. Call me crazy for wanting to prevent that."

Raffe seems only slightly contained, his breathing still haggard. "Did you know about this?" he accuses, piercing blue eyes searching my face. "You don't even seem the slightest bit surprised by knowing that Bryon, our little camp leader, is a monster."

"I'm surprised and disgusted by your temper." I ignore the emotion this draws in his eyes, only focusing on constructing the tough attitude I must display to calm him. "Otherwise? No. Bryon's been pretty frank with me. Frank enough for me to know that he's a good guy."

"If he's such a saint, why didn't he come and spit it out to all of us?" Raffe snarls, his grand wrath trickling away into something less formidable. "Why did he keep his secrets instead of revealing his true nature? It would've made things simpler."

"Dude," Hugo laughs from behind Raffe, "do you think we're stupid? He would've been skewered before he could reach 'and who are you' questions."

Raffe's growl almost seems like a titanic boulder tumbling down a mountain's face. "For all the right reasons."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Daisy's cross sigh holds the cadence of a pissed off southern belle. "Raphael, are you blind? Bryon hates you probably more than you hate him – you have killed hundreds of his siblings. Even _I_ hate _you_ more than you can even possibly hate him. You've slaughtered all my children up until the past few centuries, slaughtered 'em like pigs. So, I suppose what I'm trying to say is" – Daisy bats her eyes, the pale lashes emerging from her lids like whalebones half-submerged in sand – "you've made enemies, enemies that'd like you dead, while this man has been making nothing but friends. Kill him, and you'll face a universal witch-hunt."

Though his security in his superior position seems marginally altered by our resistance, but his throne still has three legs to stand on. "I can outfly any humans. Let them come."

"But can you escape those things?" Again, I jab at the sky, gesturing towards the circling creatures.

"Seraphim," Daisy provides, eyes grazing over the serpentine shapes. "Three female Seraphim."

"Where there are females, there's males," Hugo elucidates helpfully. "Their combined powerful is too great for this world… When a Seraphim passes together, the moon and the sun seem to become _one_ and the angel and the Fallen walk as friends…"

"Nutball," Bryon wheezes, drawing my attention to his crippled form, leaning against a tree, and the bruises already clouding the tan skin at his throat, the imprints of Raffe's fingers entwining over his windpipe sending a shiver through my veins. With the faintest hint of bronze through a slit of his eyelids, Bryon watches us with a lazy gaze, his eyes occasionally drifting down to my sister where she sits crouched by his side, caressing his cheek the way one might quiet a wounded puppy.

"Jerk," Daisy offers in response.

"Bitch," Hugo spits.

Bryon's smile broadens across his face, bringing a taut grin to my sister and to me as well. Something about those two phrases seems to warm Bryon to his core, and the sight of him being so giddy is oddly heartwarming.

But his glee is quickly snuffed out by rasping coughs issued from the very back of his throat, wet hacking that doesn't sound pleasant. Leaning to one side, he spits out a glob of quiver phlegm onto a mass of flowers; the blossoms flee from the nastiness, escaping in the sky with disgust trailing in their wake. Paige cups his cheek in alarm, meeting my eyes with a plea written in stitches.

Hugo kneels by Bryon's side, compassionate concern splintering his youthful expression with glimpses of an older spirit. With two fingers, he tilts Bryon's chin up, gently pulling at his cloak to get a better look at the wounds. Momentarily forgetting the crisis at hand, I kneel beside him, clasping his knee for reassurance that no heat has escaped his body and dashed upwards to the stars alongside his flowers. Bryon's callused hand closes over mine in familial comfort, peeling open one eye between coughs to meet my gaze for mere seconds.

Raffe's voice shoots ice through my veins. "Get away from him, Penryn. Keep your sister back."

Chilled by the open malice in his voice, I choose to ignore Raffe's order, focusing on cupping my sister's other hand in mine.

"Penryn," Raffe commands from directly behind me, "step away from that monster."

Bryon's hand tightens slightly around mine, perhaps in response to the insult.

Raffe grabs my arm and rips it from Bryon's grasp, yanking me savagely to my feet, twisting me about until I glare deep into his blue eyes. His fist curling tighter and tighter around my forearm invites nervousness, nervousness that he may crush my arm entirely in the palm of his hand. With the strength building in his grip, he very well might. To avoid that happening and to avoid Bryon leaping up to defend me, I meet his gaze levelly.

"Raffe, what are you doing?" I hiss at him, anger seeping in each word.

"You were keeping me alive by stopping me from killing him." Raffe's gaze hardens. "I get that. Now, I'm keeping you from getting slaughtered. No matter what deals he can offer you, you must turn them down. We need to leave _now_, need to see this place disappear over the horizon."

I feel baited to spit out the truth, to tell him that Bryon is my uncle, but logic halts my words – if Raffe is reacting so chaotically to a single Nephilim, he wouldn't take it very well that I'm one. With the mood he's in, my head would be lopped from my shoulders before I could breathe of word of explanation.

Instead, I settle with, "Raffe, he's given us no reason not to trust him. He's admitted that he doesn't like you, but he's trying to… I dunno, make up? The least we can do is see this through until the Nephilim town."

Raffe's rage overwhelms his expression, his fist tightening to a point of pain around my wrist. "Given us no reason not to trust him?" Raffe roars. "What do you know about this beast, Penryn? You know nothing!" Lips peeling back over his teeth with primitive hatred, Raffe cocks his head towards Bryon's broken form. "I know who he is, inside out and backwards. _Know your enemy_. I know him well. This man puts on a façade of innocence and rips you apart the moment your back is turned."

"Oh, please," I snort, twisting my wrist back and forth in a desperate attempt to dislodge his strangling grip.

"I have seen him destroy nations, Penryn," Raffe murmurs softly. "I have seen him raze cities simply by thrashing his tail. Bryon is not a good man. He has never been a good man, and he never will be."

"Let go of me, you're crushing my arm!" I order, peeling my own lips back at him. "And, if you want to know my opinion on the matter, I'd say you two are pretty much the same. In case you hadn't noticed, you've killed millions! You've slaughtered nations, brought humanity to its knees, and you don't even seem slightly apologetic! You don't try to make friends, don't try to repent for your wrongdoing! No matter how bad you think Bryon is, you're a thousand times worse!"

In that moment of pithy fury and pent-up aggression at last freeing itself from its constant bonds, I simply do not care if Raffe wasn't behind the apocalypse, I do not care if he took no part in it, I do not even care if he is indeed a thousand times better a man than Bryon. The tension of carrying around a thousand weights on my soul breaks loose like a dam giving way to a deluge. Inundated with emotions and fury, care not how algid my words are, nor do I care if Raffe is just as confused as I.

Raffe drops my arm, shock blanketing his expression.

His expression stiffens, his fists curling into tight knots. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Damn," Hugo whispers to Daisy. "This is an all-out argument. Like, they're at each other's throats."

"This could become interesting," she observes, "but interesting really isn't what I came here for." Daisy half-cocks her head towards Hugo, extending an open hand. "We saw Jane dart after Yolo or whatever his name was, and gave up the chase there – but we still want the sword. Hand it over."

"I pillaged the corpse first," Hugo protests, toying distractedly with his tie. "It's rightfully mine."

"Killer gets first picks of the spoils," Daisy points out.

"Yeah, but you didn't kill him."

"I poisoned him. He wasn't going to last much longer than an hour."

"Ah." Hugo holds up a finger to silence any more of her argument. "But Jane dealt the killing blow. And I pillaged the corpse first."

"You two are ridiculous," Bryon grunts, smiling weakly with lips still slightly quivering. Growling to himself, he plows the tip of his staff into the soft dirt at the foot of the tree he slumps against, and drags himself up the sturdy plank of wood. Hand over hand, he rises, with my little sister tenderly aiding every move.

"Whoa." Briskly, Hugo attends Bryon, laying a hand on his chest to try and push him down. "I'm no doctor, but I'm mildly certain you shouldn't be moving just quite yet, no matter how regenerative your Wolverine blood is."

"Nonsense!" Bryon chuckles, genial smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He nudges Hugo's assistance away without a trace of weariness, patting Paige on her shoulder in appreciation of her work. Then, he lifts his head and cracks his neck, rolling back his shoulders, and sighing heavily.

"There!" With a broad grin, Bryon meets my gaze. "Good as new! Now, I don't want any fighting in the camp" – he steps towards Raffe and I with the slightest hint of a limp hindering his gait – "so, you two, whatever you're fighting about, make up. _Hug_."

Though he might've had a point about not wanting fighting in camp – a good general always wants his men in order – I don't quite comprehend the last word to leave his mouth. Evidently, Raffe, too, has difficulties fully understanding Bryon.

"Hug?" he questions balefully, glare fixed on Raffe.

"Hug," Hugo pipes up. "They're when one person wraps their arms around another person, either around the torso, over the arms and around the back, or around the waist. They're usually used to show signs of affection, comfort, reassurance, and making up." Raffe and I both relax, neither one prepared for Hugo's additional statement. "Hugs often happen before sex, too."

"Thank you," Bryon trumpets, cutting off Hugo before he goes into great depth of his gay fanfictions. "Thank you, very much, for that. Yes, Raffe, I said hug. Make up. If I believed you were still ticked at me more than you're now ticked at Penryn, then I'd make sure we hugged, too. We still might, if you don't stop glaring at me." For a second, Bryon imitates Raffe imprudently, flaring his nostrils and rounding his eyes. "That's what you look like, it's quite annoying. Now. Hug."

Our glares meet with disharmony, anger curling his lip and tightening my grip at Pooky Bear's hilt.

"Hug!" Bryon snaps, authority ringing in his voice.

Still, Raffe seems indignant – his disgust is somewhat of a punch to the heart. But I have no wish to infuriate my rapidly recovering uncle, knowing the mood he is most likely squashing for the good of all.

"C'mhere, Casanova," I mutter, eyes trained on the ground at Raffe's feet. In the corner of my eye, though, I do glimpse his arms crossing over his chest in a sign of intolerance, even as I reach around his muscled torso. Disdainfully, I awkwardly pat at his back, face squashed up against his thick-girthed arms to reach around him all the way.

"You, too, Raffe," Hugo calls.

Raffe does not move. I release him, knowing very well that I'd done my job. It's not my fault if Raffe's being stubborn.

But, just as I retract, unwinding my arms from around him, Raffe lunges forward, his arms uncrossing and slamming my body against his. The energy in his embrace forces a breath out of me, but it would've been stolen anyways by the fact that he's hugging me at all. Though initially awkward, as my face is buried into his suffocating chest, as Raffe settles around me, it grows more comfortable. Like a little kitten, he cradles me, nuzzling my hair. His breath circles over my scalp, sending tingles over my skin. From my position, ear against his pectoral and forehead resting at his collar, I can hear the resounding rhythm of his heart.

This, this embrace in the middle of the moonlight woods with none but misfits and monsters looking on, this hug he gifts me with even though he knows he shouldn't – this is his apology for the things he's done, and I feel that, with each throb of his heartbeat and each breath circling through the air.

I twine my arms around his neck, trying to physically communicate with him the way he had with me by digging my fingers into his flesh and holding tight. And, in this moment, everything seems flawless, with the floating flowers all around us and the stars like a million twinkling bystanders.

"See?" Bryon murmurs, leaning heavily on his staff, stroking Belle with two fingers. "Isn't a hug wonderful?"

Over the hill, a chorus of baying wolves or dogs sounds, howling at the moon and yipping for attention. They bark loud and crisply, as if agreeing with my uncle: hugs are, in fact, wonderful.

* * *

**Alright, so, last chapter was pretty nice and calm and chill and such – but this one? Stuff happened, stuff happened big time. No doubt there's jealousy in Raffe of Bryon, and a new hatred for that matter – he can't want Penryn liking a Nephilim. **

**Daisy was introduced. Ogden really wasn't any help. Hugo succeeded in making things awkward. **

**POLL: So, this means that Uriel is on to something, doesn't it? Raffe didn't do his job, not completely – not if there are still Nephilim left over. And that, my friends, is definitely something big to Raffe, isn't it? So what should he do? Should he do the same thing as Gabriel, something even Bryon had sympathized with: letting one nation fall to allow prosperity to the rest? **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


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